


like a fox preys on a rabbit

by neroh



Category: Into the Badlands (TV), The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Background Gaby Teller/Alexander Waverly, Canon-Typical Violence, Childhood Trauma, Implied/Referenced Torture, Injury Recovery, Into the Badlands Fusion, M/M, Major Character Injury, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Supernatural Elements, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-22
Updated: 2018-12-13
Packaged: 2019-06-14 17:00:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 48,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15393333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neroh/pseuds/neroh
Summary: In dystopian England, Illya and Napoleon find each other.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Heather and Matt for the beta and Allison for allowing me to pepper her with ridiculous text messages. You three are fantastic! 
> 
> The mix is located [here](https://8tracks.com/boldly/like-a-fox-prays-on-a-rabbit).
> 
> Quick glossary:
> 
>  **Clippers** \- Military force for each Baron.  
>  **Regent** \- Head of the Clippers  
>  **Colt** \- Clipper in training  
>  **Baron** \- Controller of a specific resource/land area. Term is unisex.  
>  **The Isles** \- United Kingdom  
>  **Northlands** \- Russia  
>  **Teutschlands** \- Germany  
>  **The Flatlands** \- Netherlands and Belgium  
>  **Alkebulan** \- Africa  
>  **Vinlands** \- United States  
>  **Little Sisters** \- Channel Islands  
>  **Caerdicca Unitas** \- Italy  
>  **Severnoye Mesto** \- Northern Place

The boy is ill.

Illya might not be a doctor, but it doesn’t take one to realize it. He glances across the seat of the old military jeep to the shivering, unconscious passenger wrapped up in his jacket. If Illya thought he was pale when he found him in the unfortunate company of Vinciguerra clippers—whom he quickly dispatched with pleasure—it’s nothing compared to the ashen skin Illya sees now. The only spots of color are the boy’s cheeks, which are bright with a fever that dampens the ends of his black hair.

How long the boy was held captive by Baron Vinciguerra’s clippers is neither here nor there; Illya’s more curious about the reasons why they had him in the first place—and on Baron Waverly’s land, no less. In Illya’s opinion, the Vinciguerra clippers aren’t the brightest, and it comes as no surprise they were sloppy enough not to cross onto their own turf before stopping to torture the boy. Maybe they wanted the opportunity to spill some clipper blood since the boy’s wasn’t enough.

Honestly, the boy—whoever he is—was lucky Illya was riding by when he did. It’s not every day Baron Waverly’s regent has time to scout the perimeter of the lands himself. Illya needed the fresh air to clear his head after a long day of training colts, only to hear pained shrieking nearby. After pulling his vehicle over, Illya crept through the thick forests surrounding the Baron’s lands before finding Vinciguerra idiots in a fairy ring, as Gaby calls the circles of trees. There, they had trussed up a poor fool by his wrists, and were cutting the soles of his bare feet with unwashed blades. Their laughter filled the pauses of the boy’s cries, mercilessly taunting him before inflicting more wounds.

One of them decided his feet weren’t enough and cut the clothes—if one could call the rags he wore clothing at all—from his back. Cackling, they brought their blade to his skin and sliced off a strip of it over the boy’s blood curdling scream. The sound made goosebumps spring up on Illya’s arms, and sent a shiver down his spine as he decided to come to the boy’s aid.

Stalking them quietly, like the former Regent Oleg taught him as a colt, Illya slaughtered three of the clippers before the others knew what was happening. The fight ended as quickly as it began, leaving Illya surrounded by the gore and stench of death, in an otherwise peaceful forest. Wiping his weapons on the corpse of a clipper, he went to the boy to cut him down. The boy fell without so much of a sound, barely conscious when Illya caught and then carried him to the jeep. If the stink of him wasn’t already an indication of the Vinciguerra clippers’ poor treatment of him, the blood leaving the boy’s body decidedly _was_. Wrapping him up in his own jacket, Illya got behind the steering wheel and drove.

The boy whimpers in the seat beside him, the desperate sound reverberating in Illya’s ears as he puts distance between them and where he found him. He steals another glance and hopes Gaby and the Baron haven’t left for supper at Baron Rojas’ mansion; Gaby is a trained doctor—which is incredibly uncommon for a Baron’s wife, but, then again, Gaby is an incredible woman—whereas Illya only knows basic first aid. The boy needs her expertise if he’s going to live through the night.

What seems like hours is only thirty minutes at most while Illya drives down the dirt road leading to Baron Waverly’s mansion. Sprawled over acres of lush greenery and forests, the Baron’s specialty is oil and agriculture, whereas others have poppy fields for opium, mines for weapons, factories for textiles, and pastures filled with roaming livestock.

He spies the grayscale baronial flags waving in greeting before Illya sees the wrought iron gates. While other Barons seclude themselves behind barbed wire and watchtowers, Alexander Waverly does no such thing. He allows himself to be accessible and treats his people with kindness, which Illya thinks is a rarity and a strength. They’re unfalteringly loyal to their Baron as he is to them.

It was the same kindness Waverly showed to him as a boy found wandering through his lands, rendered mute by the horrors he experienced and skittish like a wild animal.

Illya glances at the boy again and thinks that luck has brought him here, even if the Vinciguerra clippers made the journey difficult.

He notices the Baron’s car in the driveway, waiting for passengers that have yet to descend down the front steps of the mansion. Pulling behind it and parking the jeep, Illya hurries around the other side to lift the boy into his arms. The boy’s arms and legs hang limply, swaying only when Illya moves, while his fevered forehead presses against Illya’s neck. He all but kicks the front door open as he barrels into the foyer, shouting desperately for Gaby.

She comes, of course, with Waverly on her heels; they’re dressed in their finest clothes and if it weren’t life or death, Illya would feel terrible for interrupting their evening plans. Gaby is putting an earring in when her eyes widen at the boy in Illya’s arms. “Get my bag,” she says to her husband as she rushes to the top of the staircase. “Hurry! Follow me.”

As Gaby leads Illya towards one of the guest rooms, Waverly takes off in the opposite direction. “What happened to him?” she asks, pushing open a door and letting Illya through before her. “On the chaise, if you will.”

He gently lays the boy on the chaise, unwrapping his jacket to reveal the full extent of his injuries. “I heard him screaming during my patrol. Vinciguerra clippers were torturing him on our lands,” Illya explains. He steps out of Gaby’s way to give her a wide berth to work.

“I assume you dispatched them?” she asks. She presses her fingers against the boy’s neck, taking his pulse before tilting his head towards her. Gaby lifts one eyelid, then the other and makes a disapproving sound.

“Oh goodness,” Waverly exclaims from the doorway. He has his wife’s doctor’s bag in his arms. “Who did this to him?”

Illya watches Waverly hand Gaby her bag. “Vinciguerra clippers. They were camped out on the perimeter. I will take a few men to where I left them.”

“Bastards,” Waverly hisses, uncharacteristically. His cheeks color with anger. “Perhaps delivering their heads to Victoria will send a clear message. Were you able to get anything out of him?”

He shakes his head. “He lost consciousness shortly after I cut him down.”

“It’s just as well,” Waverly muses before addressing his wife. “Darling, shall I fetch Adele for you?”

Gaby nods as she lifts the boy onto his side, frowning at the cut down his back. “Please. Tell her I’ll need fresh linens, bandages, hot water, saline, and an IV bag,” she says. “He’s filthy and will need to be bathed to bring down the risk of infection.”

“I’ll have her start the water,” Waverly offers. He looks at Illya and shrugs. “I suppose Baron Rojas will have to wait.”

Illya nods in understanding. “I’ll send your regrets.” Waverly claps his shoulder and disappears into the hallway to find Adele, leaving him alone with Gaby and the boy. Now that he’s able, Illya takes in the boy’s appearance. His cheeks retain traces of baby fat while the rest of him was growing into his prime with sharp edges and a gangly frame that has yet to broaden. He’s not quite a man, but calling him a boy—a child, really—seems strange for someone as stunning as him. Even his cleft chin adds to his beauty. If Illya were to hazard a guess, he’d say the stranger before him was twenty at most and that’s just being generous. “Will he live?”

“If I have any say in the matter,” Gaby replies over the sounds of Adele’s hurried footsteps and the boy’s ragged breathing. She’s already pushed the frilly sleeves of her dress up her arms. Gaby looks at Illya and smiles, kindly. “You’re a good man for coming to his aid when many others would have turned the other way.”

He shifts uncomfortably. “I did what was right.” Illya leaves as Adele bursts into the room, carrying a basket filled with fresh linens and bandages; the IV bag and bottle of saline rests on top of it. Other maids come, bustling around as Gaby tells them what she needs.

Illya hopes it’s enough.

 

* * *

  
It’s late when he returns.

Illya led a group of clippers to the bodies of the Vinciguerra men, where they took the heads from their shoulders and buried the rest of them in an unmarked grave. They left Baron Vinciguerra several gifts—warnings, really—at the edge of the border where Waverly’s land met Vinciguerra territory. The Clippers seemed quite merry about the dull day’s sudden turn and Illya couldn’t begrudge them. He doubts there will be retribution since the dead Vinciguerra clippers shouldn’t have been there in the first place.

With that in mind, Illya heads to the apartment above the carriage house that’s been his home since Oleg passed away. Shucking off his dirty and bloodstained clothes, Illya steps into the bathroom and the shower stall where he turns on the water. It’s blissfully cool against his hot skin as Illya stands under the stream with his eyes closed for a moment. He opens them to see mud swirling down the drain before he reaches for a bar of soap to clean himself with.

Suds fall down his back and the clipper markings tattooed into his skin. All clippers have them to an extent—the straight black lines depicted their kills—though none have the strange tattoo found on Illya’s forearm. He wipes a washcloth over the thin black design of a lotus flower resting upon a half moon circle. The linework has been done so delicately and beautifully that the emblem could be fake. For as long as he could remember, Illya had the marking without the knowledge of how it came to be drawn into his body. And for all his precocious questions asked as a child, neither did Oleg _or_ Waverly.

It certainly isn’t a flower he remembers from his childhood—the one buried under sheets of snow and ice. The Northlands, people called the freezing wasteland that never seemed to thaw, even in the summer months. A place where the people were fair and hardy, since they needed to be, and as chilly as their surroundings. Illya vaguely recalls looking up at them as he hid behind his mother’s skirts and noticing how not one of them smiled. They were so different from Waverly, who took Illya in without question, and grumpy, brash Oleg who trained him to be a warrior. Even Waverly’s first wife, Lydia, managed to brighten a room even as cancer ate away at her body.

He remembers his parents smiling though, even if it was only in the privacy of their home, and their laughter. His father had been a Regent and kept Illya and his mother a secret, as it was illegal for Northlander clippers to have families. It’s what made them flee the Northland, running over the continent towards the Isles, where Baron Konstantinov’s clippers found them attempting to cross the Channel.

His parents’ secrets are what killed them, and thrust Illya out of the innocence of childhood. As he continues washing, Illya wonders if the boy has met the same fate as he did all those years ago.

Once he’s dressed, Illya walks into the mansion where wall sconces illuminate his way in an otherwise quiet house. He finds the sick room easily enough and isn’t surprised that Gaby and Adele are still inside, talking amongst themselves. His eyes drift towards the bed, to the sickly pale figure tucked under one of the quilts Lydia had sewed when she was alive. He thinks of the needle and thread she used to stitch a mosaic of fabric together, weaving each piece into a singular entity.

 _A pathway,_ she used to tell him. _To guide someone home._

Funny that it would be used to comfort a stranger.

“You’ve come,” Gaby says. She’s out of her fancy attire with an apron tied around her waist. Bloodstained gloves cover her hands, which she peels off and drops into a basket before going to wash her skin in a porcelain basin.

Illya nods as he comes closer. “Disposing of the Vinciguerra men took longer than expected.”

“Was there trouble?” Gaby asks. She reaches for a towel to dry her hands with. When Illya shakes his head, she breathes a sigh of relief. “I am glad. Alexander’s positively furious and plans on bringing Victoria to the Council for what she’s done.”

Adele nods in agreement. “And to think that they did it on the Baron’s lands!” she adds as she settles a basket on her hip. “Those fools deserved whenever it was you did to them. Poor thing; it’s a mercy you came to his aid when you did.”

Illya follows Adele’s gaze to the unconscious boy. The dark waves falling over his fevered brow and the pillows reminds Illya of ink splatters on paper, bleeding across the white surface until it can go no further. Or perhaps it’s like the night sky when the moon has hidden itself and the stars with it. If only he weren’t straddling the median between life and death, because the boy is the most beautiful creature Illya has ever laid eyes on.

“Have you eaten?” Adele asks him, and sighs heavily when he shakes his head. “I will bring you something from the kitchen. Really, Ilyusha, you must take better care of yourself!”

He smirks at Adele’s fussing. “I will try my hardest.”

“Silly boy,” she says, with fondness in her voice, and then leaves.

Illya waits a moment before walking to the footboard, and rests his hands on the smooth wooden surface. From there, he can better see the rise and fall of the boy’s chest as he breathes through chapped lips. “How is he?”

“Alive,” Gaby answers. “For now. I’ve done what I could; the rest is up to him.” She motions for Illya to come closer. “There’s something you should see.”

Curious, he goes to stand next to her, watching as Gaby slips one of the boy’s arms out from underneath the quilt. Turning it over, Gaby reveals more pale skin and the blue veins under the surface. Illya follows them, eyes making an invisible map until he blinks in surprise. He takes hold of the boy for a better look at the black ink tattooed onto his forearm. From the delicate linework to the precise tips of the half moon, it’s the twin to Illya’s own.

“He isn’t a Northlander,” Gaby says, quietly. Having come from the Teutschlands, she has seen more Northlanders than anyone in the Isles, with the lands being close together.

The boy, while fair, seems as though someone finally got around to breathing life into those lovely marble statues placed around the gardens, and added just the right amount of blush on his cheeks through a means kept secret between him and his maker. He is nothing like the people of Illya’s childhood village with their dour expressions, flat faces with pointed chins, icy colored eyes set against pale skin and golden hair.

When he was younger and more whimsical in his thoughts, Illya thought he lived in a land filled with snow angels. “No,” he agrees, laying the boy’s arm on the bed. “He is not. Has he woken at all?”

Gaby gives him a hard look. “With the amount of blood on your jacket rather than inside his body on top of the injuries the Vinciguerra bastards inflicted, do you _really_ believe he would regain consciousness? I’m a doctor, Illya. Not a miracle worker.”

“Aren’t they mutually exclusive?” Illya teases, earning a slap on his chest.

“ _No_ ,” Gaby hisses as she tucks the boy’s arm back under the quilt. She smooths her hand over the fabric before reaching for the boy’s hair, brushing it away from his forehead. “As I told my husband, I don’t want to get your hopes up. He may not see the dawn, or he could outlive us all.”

Illya tenses at Gaby mentioning death. He didn’t think of the direness of the boy’s health when he rushed into the fray to rescue him and now to think he may die, it stings more than it should. Illya wants to ask him so many questions. _Who are you? Where are you from? What does the tattoo we share mean?_

_And why do you have it, too?_

 

* * *

 

He stays with the boy throughout the night until the first light of morning.

It’s strange to be able to watch someone as they sleep, chest rising and falling with each precious breath. Granted, Illya never thought he would see more bruises blooming over another’s skin by candlelight or any signs indicating a change in their condition. But the very idea of the boy not making through the night—which he does—or the hope that he wakes so Illya can finally get answers to long sought out questions, makes Illya immovable. Gaby has already made it crystal clear that the boy’s recovery will be long and tedious if he manages to survive the first twenty-four hours, and no one should expect much until then. Along with Baron Waverly and the rest of the household, Illya resigns himself to waiting.

For as long as he could remember, Illya’s always been the impatient sort. _Impatient and passionate_ , his mama used to tell him, with laughter in her sweet voice, of how much he was like his father. _My little Ilyusha,_ she hummed like a lullaby as her fingers cupped his chin. _Never change._

She would be glad to know that her little Ilyusha is very much the same, save for being passionate. It’s hardly a word he’d use to describe himself. Driven, yes. Even calculating but never passionate. Illya reasons it’s from witnessing his parents’ murders, and the hardship he endured before finding himself in Baron Waverly’s lands. Anyone would steel themselves after such harrowing experiences.

“Still here?” Adele says as she comes bustling into the sick room with a tray in her hands. The delicious scent of food wafts from underneath the silver plate cover. “I thought you would be overseeing the Colts this morning.”

Illya shrugs, too preoccupied with the tray as Adele sets it on the nightstand. “Tilda will be fine on her own. Is this for me?”

He’s already reaching for the cover when Adele slaps his hand away. “Yes, and you’ll wait if you know what’s good for you!” she snaps. She takes a cloth napkin and fastens it in Illya’s shirt collar before passing him his utensils. “Impatient and stubborn just like Oleg taught you,” Adele chides.

“Not the worst thing to be when you’re Regent,” Illya says, flashing her a smirk. He uncovers the plate of food, inhaling the aroma of eggs, sausage, and toast. “Thank you, Adele. Truly.”

Adele sniffs, waving dismissively as she watches Illya begin to eat. “I hope the one who tames that heart of yours gives you a run for your money, and I live to see it,” she tells him. “How’s our patient?”

“As far as I can tell, not much has changed since the Baroness left,” Illya replies between bites.

She takes the boy’s wrist to feel his pulse, which she counts before setting it down on the mattress. “Stronger than last night,” Adele muses aloud. “But not nearly where it should be. I suspect he’ll have quite a ways to go before he regains his health.”

“Do you think he will?” Illya asks with more interest than he should. Honestly, he threw caution to the wind the moment he stepped back into this room—probably before then.

“If living through his time with the Vinciguerra clippers is any indication,” she reasons, shrugging, as she takes the porcelain jug off the nightstand and heads to the bathroom.

It’s not the answer Illya hoped for, but Gaby might be able to tell him more when she comes to check on the boy. Listening to Adele fill the jug with fresh water, Illya continues eating, or he’ll hear about not clearing his plate for a fortnight. He already hears Adele telling him how skinny he had been when he first arrived. Suspiciously, she’ll never mention how he clung to Baron Waverly or didn’t speak for three months—no one does.

Everyone wants to remember the sweet, but never the sour, and yet you can’t have one without the other. It’s what Illya finds so interesting as well as distressing about human nature.

“You’ve gotten introspective again, haven’t you,” Adele teases as she returns. Along with the jug, she has several hand towels draped over her arm. “Take this, will you?”

Illya takes the jug from her. “I’m not being introspective,” he argues when, in fact, he _is_. It doesn’t mean he’ll admit to such. When Adele only hums in reply, he scowls even though he knows full well that it’ll do nothing—she’s lived through Oleg’s nasty temper and the Regent before him.

Adele dunks one of the towels into the jug and wrings out the excess water before pressing it to the boy’s face. He doesn’t even flinch at the repeated contact until Adele lays it over his fevered forehead in a neat rectangle. It’s no match for the medicines Gaby administered, but a comfort all the same. “I don’t hear you eating,” Adele sing-songs.

Rather than argue with her, Illya scoffs as he sets the jug down and goes back to his meal.

 

* * *

 

The days following the boy’s arrival to Baron Waverly’s household are filled with too much activity to allow Illya to keep his vigil for as long as he wants to.

Not that Illya will admit to it, even when Gaby teases him. He ignores her and Adele’s giggles and leaves the sick room, regret filling him with each step. As much as Illya wishes he could stop by—even late at night—he knows he has his duties as Regent and slacking off isn’t an option. Besides, keeping himself busy is a way to compartmentalize. It’s what Oleg told him, as he withered away and Illya stepped into his place.

_Stay busy, Illya. It will keep you out of trouble._

Yet trouble seems to find him, regardless, and Illya thinks it’s the curse of his parents. He never seeks it out—it comes time and time again. Today it arrives in the form of Waverly, who keeps his distance while Illya and Tilda oversee the older colts’ training session. Illya nods at him, then shouts at two boys picking on a third. While other Regents might tolerate bullying, he does not. It’s a disease that festers until it infects the entire regiment.

“To be young,” Waverly says once training has concluded and the colts are heading back to the dormitories while Tilda goes to the cottage she shares with her partner, Odessa. He picks up a throwing dagger for inspection. “And having a temper as quick as one’s fists.”

Illya shrugs as he removes his vambraces. “I can’t say I miss it.”

The Baron chuckles. “Because you are still young, Illya,” Waverly tells him. He sets the throwing dagger back down. “One day you will.”

“Do you?” Illya asks. He and Waverly have always been candid and informal, whereas Oleg was anything but. Illya suspects it made the old Regent envious on occasion, though Oleg would never say as much.

“From time to time,” Waverly admits. He offers Illya a smile, then says, “The Council has called upon us after receiving my complaint. We are to depart as soon as possible.”

He nods. It’s not surprising to hear from the Council so soon after Waverly wrote them—learning that a Baron has been trespassing upon another’s lands to commit acts of violence isn’t something to be taken lightly. “I will let Tilda know,” Illya says.

As he goes to leave, Waverly calls after him. “Illya,” he says. “Gaby told me that the boy regained his senses, even if it was for a few moments.”

Relief floods him, warming his core and spreading throughout his body—Illya can finally gain the answers he seeks. Keeping it in check is difficult, but he manages. “I am glad to hear it,” Illya replies. “Was he able–”

Waverly is already shaking his head, dashing Illya’s hopes for finding out the boy’s name. “The fever still has a hold on him. Don’t fret; he will live. I am certain of it.”

 

* * *

 

Victoria Vinciguerra is as tall and willowy as Illya remembers.

She saunters into the Council with an entourage of clippers wearing her colors—gold and white—breezing pass other Barons to her seat. Astute and conniving, Victoria murdered her own husband to seize control over his title and lands. She’s single-handedly managed to create an empire and enemies with it. While Victoria and Waverly have always had an uneasy alliance with their land being so close together, lines have been crossed.

Illya thinks of the boy he rescued from her men—men under Sanders’, her Regent and ever-present shadow, command—and has to ball his fists in anger. He thinks of the boy’s screams as one of the Vinciguerra clippers cut a strip of his skin from his body, and the pool of crimson that gathered below him. He thinks of pale skin and the icy Northlands and how blood stains his image of them…even now. Illya itches to tear Sanders—with his pox-marked skin and slippery smirk—apart.

There are rumors of he and Victoria being lovers long before _coup d'état_ that resulted in her husband and his supporters’ deaths, which isn’t the least bit surprising. Sanders is the worst sort of Regent and human being: violent, treacherous, and evil. He’s like Baron Konstantinov, who sent his clippers through ice and snow to find his parents and slaughter them. Men like Sanders crave power by any means necessary, which makes Illya wonder why Sanders had the boy in the first place.

“You know why we are gathered here,” Baron Neville addresses the room. He gives Victoria a particularly scathing look, to which she returns with a cold grin. “It has been brought to the Council’s attention that a grievous act of treason has been committed. Baron Vinciguerra, how do you plead to the charge of your men assaulting and torturing a boy on Baron Waverly’s land?”

Victoria stares at him, blinking slowly to make a show of her long eyelashes and how she moves like a butterfly batting its wings. “I find it preposterous. Myself and my Regent would never condone such an act, especially when it violates the Baron Accords—and insults Baron Waverly, who has always been an ally.”

“Then why were your men torturing that poor boy on my lands?” Waverly calmly asks her.

“I wish I knew, Alexander, ” Victoria answers, genteelly. Her eyes flicker to Illya for an icy moment, then back to Waverly. She removes one of her gloves and sets it upon her lap. “What I _do_ know is that neither myself or Sanders ordered such a cruel act; Adrian is already investigating the matter.”

Her Regent steps forward and nods. “It’s true,” Sanders adds. “While I have not been able to find out much due to the offending clippers being dead—” Another hard look gets thrown in Illya’s direction. “—I am starting to believe that the fools acted on their own. Perhaps too much indulging in Baron Rojas’ taverns?”

“If your clippers cannot handle their drink and opium, the fault is on them,” Rojas snaps; he’s risen out of his seat and points an accusatory finger at Sanders.

Waverly clears his throat and says, “It doesn’t matter what they were doing before my Regent came upon them. They were torturing a boy and would have likely killed him if it hadn’t been for Illya’s intervention. The fact still stands—your clippers trespassed on my lands, Victoria.”

“This is all based upon a tale that your Regent told you,” Sanders dares to say to Waverly. “How do we know that it wasn’t an attack on my men?”

Waverly tilts his head, considering Sanders and the urge to punch the sneer off his face. “Why would I lie?”

“Why indeed,” Sanders muses. “Do you know that they say children inherit traits from their parents? Given the circumstances in which your own fled the Northlands, lying might be something you were _born_ to do. Something you simply can’t help.”

Illya clenches his jaw hard enough to make it ache—anything to drown out the murmur rippling through the others in attendance. Unconsciously, he steps forward only to feel Waverly’s hand pushing back against his stomach. He realizes what he’s done and his cheeks begin to burn.

“I can assure you, Regent Sanders, as well as everyone else present that Regent Kuryakin would have little reason to lie, let alone to _me_ ,” Waverly says. “To blame him and his parents for the hardships they endured is both unbecoming and a deflection of responsibility, which lies solely upon you, Regent, since they were _your_ men. Perhaps you ought to keep your clippers on a tighter leash.”

Very little satisfaction comes from seeing Sanders’ face turn pink from Waverly’s verbal attack. His anger is already at a fevered pitch, steadily gaining, as Illya stares at Sanders and thinks how glad he is that he ended up in Baron Waverly’s lands rather than the snake pit of the Vinciguerra baronage.

“My question is why on earth would your clippers pluck a boy from wherever he came from only to torture him?” a slight woman who Illya remembers as Baroness Toussaint.

 _Why indeed,_ Illya thinks. He’s been wondering the same thing ever since Gaby showed him the tattoo on the boy’s forearm. Touching his own through his sleeves, Illya can’t imagine what it means—and what Victoria Vinciguerra and Sanders would do if they found out he bore the same mark.

“And how is the boy, Alexander?” Baron Neville inquires.

Sighing before he answers, Waverly shares a glance with Illya and says, “It’s too soon to tell.”

Baron Toussaint speaks again. “Has your wife seen him?”

Waverly pointedly ignores Sanders’ scoff while Illya does not. He meets the other Regent’s slippery gaze and shakes his head in silent warning. “She’s been treating the boy since Regent Kuryakin brought him to us,” he hears his Baron’s reply.

“She is the best physician I’ve ever encountered,” Baron Toussaint says with a fond smile brightening her face. “I am pleased to hear that she didn’t give it up when you two married.”

“That makes two of us,” Waverly agrees, chuckling. Even with the dire circumstances of this Council meeting, Baron Waverly cannot conceal his deep love and admiration for Gaby. “The boy is lucky.”

Victoria rolls her eyes. “If he lives,” she stage-whispers to Sanders. She feigns innocence as she turns to the Council. “Alexander himself said it was too soon to tell if the boy will survive his ordeal.”

“It is not too soon for us to vote on the matter,” Baron Rojas grumbles.

Baron Neville nods. “I agree. Let’s put it to a vote then. All in favor of conviction raise your hand.”

 

* * *

 

“Deadlocked!” Gaby hisses as she injects a syringe of clear fluid into the boy’s IV.

Illya can’t believe it himself but doesn’t say anything. Words will not help this mess—because that’s _exactly_ what it’s become—nor the independent council investigating the matter. Many baronages have gone to war over less, but both Waverly and Victoria are smarter than that.

Gaby snaps her doctor’s case shut. “Deadlocked!” she hisses again, looking positively furious when she finally turns around to face Illya. “Let me guess. Barons MacLeod, Chamberlain, and Lennox—all of them eat out of Victoria’s palms when they aren’t filling their lungs with her opium. What treacherous snakes!”

“The truth will come out in due time,” Waverly says from the doorway. “May I?”

She huffs, but motions her husband to come inside. “It’s very unusual for a Baron to ask if he can enter a room in his own house,” Gaby tells him.

“Then I’d rather be very unusual than predictable,” Waverly replies, smiling. He kisses Gaby’s cheek.

“Is that how you kiss your wife?” Gaby teases as she pulls him closer, rousing laughter from Waverly. “Come here, you silly man!”

Displays of affection usually have no effect on Illya, but he thinks he would need to be dead for him not to be moved by Gaby and Waverly as they kiss. He remembers when Lydia passed away and wondered if he would ever see his Baron smile or even be happy again. Waverly loved his first wife with every fiber of his being, and her death had been a crushing blow, but Gaby came as if Lydia sent her from the Heavens herself, and breathed life back into the Baron.

While Illya has shared his body with others of his choosing, he’s never been in love. He’s loved and been loved by his adoptive family, but has yet to experience the freefall of giving his heart to another. Waverly has had the good fortune of doing it twice and Illya finds himself envying, if only a little.

“How is our young guest?” Waverly asks. He curls his arm around Gaby’s shoulders and tangles his fingers in the ends of her hair, mindlessly touching her while he looks at her adoringly.

Gaby sighs, shaking her head. “He woke again,” she tells them as she removes the needle that she used to draw blood and covers the puncture wound with gauze. “Not for very long—just a moment or two—but longer than before. His fever has gone down, but continues to linger. Before you ask, he hasn’t told me anything about himself. Just some incoherent rambling. I’m not even sure if it’s _words_ coming out of his mouth.”

 _And what a lovely mouth it is,_ Illya muses. “Perhaps it’s another language?”

“If it is, it’s certainly not from the Northlands,” Gaby says. She has a sympathetic look on her face; so does Waverly. “What’s going through that head of yours?”

Illya rubs a hand over the part of his forearm where the tattoo resides and isn’t too sure himself. “I thought it was symbol from my homeland.”

“It could still be,” Waverly says. “I could consult several volumes in the library…”

“He doesn’t look like a Northlander,” Illya argues, gesturing to the boy. “Too dark, for one. His features too sculpted, another.”

Gaby snorts into her hand. “Too sculpted?” She giggles when Illya shoots her a scathing look.

“Well,” Waverly begins, “one of his parents might have been from the Northlands while the other from somewhere else.”

Frustrated, Illya shakes his head. “I may have been a boy when I left, but I can tell you that this stranger hasn’t an ounce of Northlander blood in him.”

Waverly relents with a nod. “If only Victoria or her Regent would more forthcoming with why her clippers had him in the first place,” he wonders aloud.

“Then she could tell us where they took him from,” Gaby mutters, bitterly. “And if there were more.”

Illya wonders the same thing, and how could he not? Perhaps it wasn’t his parents’ relationship—while illegal— that drove them from the Northlands but the strange symbol inked into his skin. What could it all mean and what bearing does it have on him as an adult? “You said you had several volumes in the library.”

“I do. Most of it is folklore from the _Ancien Régime_ , though I believe there is some truth to it,” Waverly tells him.

“May I bring one of them back to my apartments?”

He notices the rueful look in Waverly’s eyes—the look of kindness he saw when Waverly found him as a boy—and already knows his answer. “Of course, Illya. Come, I’ll show you where they are and we can leave Gaby in peace.”

 

* * *

 

There are three volumes.

The first two yield nothing beneficial, though they tell great tales of the _Ancien Régime_ , when the world was in chaos and spiraling further out of control. Brothers were fighting one another for scraps, babies starved on their mother’s teat, bombs dropped on schools and churches; each travesty worse than the next.

Until something stopped it. That’s when it becomes rather farfetched in Illya’s opinion.

The third volume paints an image of strange and unbelievable forces that harnessed these horrific things like Pandora’s Box. The author claims that magic, not the Baron Accords, was what quelled the rising tide of violence and practically sung it a lullaby. It sounds more like a children’s fairytale than actual events, but Illya supposes that’s what Waverly meant when he called it folklore.

After all, legend is birthed by truth, Illya tells himself while he reads and grows sick with frustration.

Illya finishes the third volume only seconds before Adele comes to find him. “He’s awake,” she says.

He goes to him.

 

* * *

 

“You mustn’t pepper him with questions,” Adele warns as they hurry to the boy’s room.

Illya grunts in reply and wonders when the walk from his apartment to the main house became so long. It’s early, far too early for anyone else on staff to be awake and it occurs to Illya that he hasn’t slept since yesterday. Under normal circumstances, he would be scolding himself for being so careless as to get caught up in a book, of all things, but cannot do so. Illya’s been waiting for nearly a fortnight to hear news that the boy’s fought off the worst of his maladies. “Has he spoken?”

“He asked for some water, but other than that, very little,” Adele says. “The Baron and Baroness are with him. Perhaps they’ve gotten a name out of the poor thing!”

A name would be a good place for them to start, as referring to him as a boy seemed rather insulting. It’s been clear to Illya from the get-go that he wasn’t truly a boy, but a young man. Now that he’s awakened, Illya thinks it’s strange that he’s only realizing this just now. So yes…a name would be good.

“Did he seem,” Illya begins to ask as they charge up the back stairs, “frightened?”

“A bit too exhausted to be frightened, if you ask me,” Adele grabs Illya by his sleeve and pulls him close. “Gaby isn’t certain if he remembers what happened, so keep that in mind when you speak with him, hrm? Save your interrogations for Regent business!”

Illya bristles at the accusation. “I _won’t_ interrogate him!” he mutters.

Adele’s silence is answer enough; she’s known Illya since he was a boy and has seen how he can be. But this is different—this stranger has answers and will hopefully tell Illya once he’s recovered enough. Illya’s heard her threats of kicking him out of the sick room and doesn’t doubt them, so he’ll behave.

For now.

He hears Waverly and Gaby’s voices drifting down the hallway moments before he actually sees them. Their hushed tones don’t allow for much deciphering, but Illya reckons they’re doing it for the boy’s sake. Perhaps he’s fallen back asleep or they’ve found that loud noises startle him. Adele rushes ahead of him, announcing Illya’s arrival and stepping aside when he comes to the doorway, nodding his head in greeting to the Baron and Baroness. Then he notices the boy.

Framed by dark eyebrows and even darker lashes, Illya tries to fathom how it’s even possible for those tired irises to be bluer than blue. The boy’s eyes are of the ocean, so full of life and, yet, uncertain. Hesitant and ready for battle should the occasion call for it, but thoughtful. Clever, even.

Gaby moves the half-empty glass of water away from his mouth and says, “That’s Illya.”

The boy furrows his brows as he looks Illya over, his forehead creasing when he sees Illya’s vambraces and remnants of his Regent uniform.

“He’s the one who brought you here,” Gaby explains. She and Waverly notice the boy’s apprehension. “Do you remember him, Napoleon?”

 _Napoleon,_ Illya wonders. Such a grand, seldom heard name with uncertain origins. The very thing they called a long-dead emperor and mythological creatures of mist from the Northland and Teutschlands; it suits this startlingly beautiful boy.

“Hello,” Illya says. Forcing a smile, Illya tries appearing friendly since there is no doubt in his mind that the boy must be thinking of the Clippers who tortured him with Illya standing there. Napoleon continues to frown, so he attempts to make conversation. “It’s good to see you awake. How do you feel?”

Napoleon’s eyes leave him for Gaby, who he looks at with uncertainty. As if he’s asking if Illya will be like the Vinciguerra clippers. He can’t blame the boy for his hesitation and says nothing.

“Illya brought you to us,” Waverly explains. He leans against the dresser with his arms folded over his chest, offering a smile when Napoleon’s attention goes to him. “He also dispatched the Clippers who were responsible for your injuries.”

The boy swallows before he speaks in a baritone that lacks any accent, really. “Dispatched?” Napoleon asks as his blue eyes widen in surprise and fear. He certainly doesn’t sound like he’s from the Isles, Teutschlands, or Northlands—hell, not even the Flatlands. His voice adds more to the mystery of where he came from.

“You don’t have to worry about them,” Illya tells him, conveniently leaving out the part of delivering their heads to Victoria Vinciguerra. That will be for another time.

Napoleon sighs with relief, slumping against the pillows propping him up like his strings have been cut. Closing his eyes, he tilts his head back and exposes his pale throat to the room. He stays like that for a while, leading Illya and everyone else that he’s fallen asleep until he blinks. Napoleon looks at the glass in Gaby’s hand and asks, almost shyly, “Could I have a bit more?”

“Of course,” Gaby says as she lifts the glass to his lips.

Now that the boy’s awake, Illya searches his face and body language for playing them false. Napoleon seems more nervous and uncomfortable in their company than anything else, wearing a similar expression to the one Illya had when he first arrived. Then again, Napoleon’s nude underneath the blankets piled on top of him and probably feeling even more vulnerable with this knowledge.

Interestingly, Napoleon’s eyes dart around the room in what Illya thinks is to search for unseen dangers. It’s not surprising given the way the Vinciguerra clippers treated him.

Adele, who he hadn’t realized had left the room, returns with a tray of food for Napoleon. It’s simple fare—a bowl of steaming broth and some toast. “How would you like something to eat?” she asks, brightly, as she approaches the bed.

Napoleon has very little of his meal, which Illya finds rather surprising. The boy’s been unconscious for nearly a fortnight and he expected him to be ravenous. Instead, exhaustion comes for Napoleon in between spoonfuls of broth and several bites of toast, and mumbles an apology to Adele. It’s the same embarrassment Illya felt as a child when he _wanted_ to eat, but his body couldn’t cooperate.

“Never mind, young man!” Adele says as she takes the tray away. “There’s always tomorrow.” With that, she leaves again.

The boy stares at the space Adele has left unoccupied for several moments before Waverly suggests helping him to the bathroom. Gaby brings him a pair of flannel sleeping trousers and leaves the room while Illya and Waverly assist Napoleon in pulling them on. Illya takes in the deep bruising around Napoleon’s ribs, and the rest of him where it hasn’t begun to turn green; it’s no surprise the boy grunts painfully at the slightest movement.

Later, when Napoleon is back in bed with Gaby injecting the IV line with pain medicine, Illya and Waverly stand in the doorway, quietly observing.

“He’s not from here,” Illya intones. “Or the Continent.”

“No, he is not,” Waverly agrees. He tilts his head as he looks at the boy. “I doubt he’s from Alkebulan or even spent time there.”

Illya frowns; he doesn’t like not knowing. “Then where _did_ he come from?” Folding his arms over his chest, he continues watching Napoleon and how his eyelids flutter dangerously, until he visibly sighs, then sleeps. “Do you think he’ll tell us?”

With a shrug, Waverly says, “In time.”

It’s all any of them can hope for.


	2. Chapter 2

Time—the indefinite continued progress of existence and events that occur in apparent irreversible succession through the past to present and future.

Some have it an abundance while others are only limited; Illya thinks it’s all perception.

He’s heard Adele bemoan how there aren’t enough hours in the day, in contrast to Tilda complaining of how slowly it goes. Even Illya has given himself pause at night while he shines his boots, or sharpens his knives, and wonders where all the time has gone, as if it passed him without him noticing.

Then again, he’s busy with his responsibilities as Regent, which aren’t limited to overseeing the runnings of the regime or colt training. With Victoria Vinciguerra keeping her hand expertly concealed while the Council decides on the matter of which Waverly has charged her, Illya’s been busy with scheduling perimeter checks, doubling security, and working with Tilda and Waverly to drum up a plan should Sanders decide to strike. All in all, the act of waiting keeps Illya occupied from sun up to sun down.

It keeps him from becoming restless; it keeps him from finding trouble. It allows the chafing uncertainty of the ties Illya might share with Napoleon at bay.

However, it doesn’t keep Illya from thinking of Napoleon with his blue eyes and plush mouth. Thoughts of the boy find him when it’s late at night and he cannot sleep. He lies in bed, staring up at the moon-drenched ceiling when Napoleon’s face comes to mind, haunting Illya with unasked and unanswered questions. He wonders about the tattoo on his forearm and how it may taste under Illya’s tongue, or what sounds Napoleon might make when Illya touches him.

Would he gasp or moan? Would he whisper Illya’s name as Illya explored his body?

Taking himself in hand, Illya continues his musings under the silver moonlight and the accompanying symphony of crickets chirping outside his bedroom window. Do they know who he’s thinking about when he turns his head to bite down on his pillow, and his release coats his fist?

 _They must,_ Illya decides as he wipes his hand on his sleep trousers and steadies his breath. _The moon and stars see everything even before it’s been written._

Illya thinks they must find it terribly amusing when he wakes up in the morning with dried cum on his trousers and guilt knotting up his stomach.

 

* * *

 

Seeking Napoleon out makes Illya unusually nervous, so he doesn’t.

He’s afraid of Napoleon’s ocean blue eyes taking one look at him and knowing Illya better than he knows himself. It’s irrational and almost silly—like a child being afraid of monsters under their bed or hidden in the closet when they’re in plain sight. Napoleon couldn’t possibly know much about Illya other than his name and the violent circumstances that brought them together.

Other than Napoleon’s blood staining Illya’s hands and jacket, they don’t know much about each other, if anything at all.

While Illya can lie to Adele or Tilda, even Waverly, about why he hasn’t gone to see Napoleon, the same cannot be said about Gaby.

“You’re avoiding him,” she says one afternoon while they’re strolling through the gardens. Tilda and Waverly are ahead of them, animatedly chatting about something Illya cares little about. Gaby moves her parasol to look at him, bursting through Illya’s defenses, and shakes her head. “Oh, Illya,” Gaby sighs like he’s a lost child.

Illya sets his jaw and says nothing. Saying nothing means he doesn’t have to reveal himself. Saying nothing means his secrets stay safe.

“What are you so afraid of?” Gaby asks as her fingers twirl the fine wooden handle. Her actions remind Illya of how young she truly is—nearly thirty years junior to her husband, and much closer to Illya’s age. While fiercely intelligent, strong, and beautiful, he’s never felt anything other than brotherly love towards Gaby. There are times he wonders if they were siblings in a past life given how quickly and easily they fell into camaraderie.

He swallows, feeling how his saliva sticks to his throat. “I am not afraid,” Illya tells her. “My duties have kept me away from his sick bed.”

“But your duties allow for an afternoon stroll in the gardens?” Gaby counters, smirking when Illya’s cheeks begin to turn crimson.

“Your and the Baron’s safety is paramount,” Illya says, sounding an awful lot like Oleg. “With the Vinciguerra regime running around like rabid dogs, we must be cautious.”

A scoff comes from Gaby as she rolls her eyes. “Our regime is ten times larger than Victoria’s, not to mention our allies, which rivals her own,” she replies, annoyed. Tapping his shoulder with the tip of her parasol, Gaby levels her gaze and says, “What is truly bothering you?”

Illya opens his mouth to reply, then thinks better of it.

“ _Illya_ ,” Gaby says, worriedly. “Is everything all right?”

He peers into her deep brown eyes and allows his defenses to fall when he sees the concern in them. “What if he reveals something I am not ready to hear?” Illya says, curling his hands into fists. “What if…”

“Napoleon can only reveal answers if you ask the question,” Gaby assures. “And he’s just as frightened as you are. Napoleon’s found himself alone, in a strange place.”

His fingernails cut into his palms. “Meaning?” Illya asks with more bite than he means to. Luckily, it doesn’t faze Gaby in the slightest.

“Meaning,” Gaby continues, practically sing-songing the word, “he could use a friendly face, even one as dour as yours.”

“I am not dour,” Illya grumbles, chagrined.

Ignoring him, Gaby points out, “Besides, you’re the one who saved his life. Perhaps he’ll feel safest with you and will begin opening up.”

“He barely spoke to me.”

Gaby rolls her eyes again as if Illya is the most exasperating person she’s ever encountered. It occurs to him that he just might be. “If you were around more often you’d notice he’s barely spoken to anyone.”

This surprises him—he reckons if Napoleon were going to open up to any member of the household, it would be Gaby or, perhaps, Adele. Even Waverly comes to mind. They’re all amiable and far more approachable than Illya. He wouldn’t even associate the word _friendly_ with himself since he’s anything but. It’s not that he’s cruel, just incredibly reserved.

“Even you couldn’t charm the boy into loosening his tongue?” Illya teases as Gaby curses at him in her mother tongue. Over the sound of his laughter, she slaps his chest with her parasol, and it’s little wonder that the delicate paper canopy doesn’t tear from the impact.

Even if it did, Waverly could, _and_ would, just buy her a new one.

Gaby has that look about her, when she’ll not be dissuaded, as she tells him, “Come by his rooms tonight.” She doesn’t bother to disguise it as a suggestion, but an _order_. “If you don’t, I _will_ come to find you.”

“Is that a threat?” Illya asks.

“No,” she replies, haughtily, as she squares her shoulders. “It’s a promise, and you’ll do yourself a favor by _listening_ to it!”

Before he can snap in reply Gaby walks in the direction of her husband, where she takes his arm and smiles adoringly at him. Illya watches her for signs of her fierce anger lingering as Gaby says something to Waverly; there is none. She conceals them, burying them under her medicine bag and colorful dresses, with delicately painted parasols in her hands.

She’s a force of nature—the strongest person under the baronage. Gaby will outlive them all.

 

* * *

 

A wall sconce from the bathroom spills light into the sick room, casting an eerie golden glow, and overcomes the places where the silver moon comes through the window slats.

Illya stands in the doorway, listening to the house creaking around and under him as he watches Napoleon sleep. He’s intruding—or it feels like it anyway—despite having seen the boy bleeding and on the verge of death. Napoleon’s blood has stained his hands and his whimpers filled his ears, but the Vinciguerra vultures failed to slaughter Napoleon—it says more about the boy’s resilience than Illya’s impeccable timing.

He wonders what might have happened if he hadn’t been driving by and heard Napoleon’s cries—would he have lived? Who can say? It’s the last thought Illya spares the boy before returning to his apartment for the night.

And he dreams.

_He dreams of his parents’ blood running between the rocks of an icy shore and the treacherous Northlands from which he came, then of Napoleon’s parted lips and pale skin. He imagines how Napoleon would taste on his tongue, slowly tracing over carefully sculpted muscle and his hands touching the invisible lines Illya makes just because he can._

_Death rattles turn into gasps and sighs of pleasure, chasing away the horror from so many years ago. Its darkness becomes the inky color of Napoleon’s hair slipping on a pillow. Illya wants to tangle his fingers in it or pull on it until Napoleon bears his neck to him. Glancing up the length of Napoleon’s body, Illya expects to find his ocean-blue eyes staring back._

_Instead, both eyes are pitch black like a void, like a fathomless pit that spreads into Napoleon’s veins. Cracks of darkness appear, spreading like a disease through his veins. Illya opens his mouth to call out in warning, realizing too late that a hand squeezes at his throat. Razor-sharp fingernails dig into his skin, cutting it as if his flesh is nothing, and unrelenting even as Illya grabs this creature’s—Napoleon’s—wrist. Using all of his strength, he tries to throw the boy off him, tries to wrench him from his neck, tries everything he can while Napoleon looks on._

_“Still trying to escape?” Napoleon asks, his voice screeching like fatigued metal despite his unmoving mouth. He sneers at Illya’s struggle. There’s evil simmering under the surface of this boy—pure evil. Illya knows what it looks like, having seen it many times before._

_“There are only two masters in this world: pain and fear. Prepare to meet both.”_

Illya jolts upright, heart beating wildly in his chest with a warning shout on his tongue. His eyes dart around while he automatically reaches for the knife hidden under his pillow, and squinting into the shadows of his bedroom reveal familiar surroundings. Realizing there’s no threat, Illya slumps against the headboard with his blade still in hand, and listens to the crickets until he’s calm enough to stand.

As his feet touch the floor, pain races up his arm and bursts into a burning sensation that causes Illya to cry out and drop the knife. The onslaught is over before it began, leaving faint discomfort around the tattoo on Illya’s forearm. He rubs it incessantly as he goes to the bathroom and flicks on the lights.

Wincing at the sudden brightness, Illya expects his skin to be charred or bleeding, but finds nothing. He examines the area with his fingers, prodding the tattoo for longer than he thinks is necessary. Illya frowns in confusion as he braces his hands against the porcelain sink, silently condemning himself for allowing a nightmare to get the best of him.

For allowing Napoleon and old demons to get the better of him. He’s a Regent, not a small child afraid of the dark.

Illya repeats this to himself as he shuts off the lights in the bathroom and goes back to his unmade bed. He lies under the quilt, staring at the ceiling while he waits for sleep to reclaim him.

It never does, and neither do his nightmares.

 

* * *

 

To know that evil had many faces was a lesson Illya learned early on.

It’s ingrained in his memory with the Clippers who took his parents’ lives and then laughed at him as he made his escape in a rickety boat, drifting towards an unknown destination. Its darkness has been present in every instance Illya’s been in the same vicinity as Baron Vinciguerra and Regent Sanders, as well as the various people he’s dispatched when the need comes. Illya recalls it in Oleg’s co-Regent, a slippery eel whose name he can no longer recall—only that the loathsome man became Illya’s first kill.

He’s seen evil in the eyes of men, women, and even children. He’s choked on the ash-like taste of it during battle and felt its coldness in the form of blades or bullets. It’s in the spilled blood of innocent people and rotting corpses; traces of it are everywhere.

Even in the places no one bothers to look, places no one wants to.

Illya doesn’t find evil when he steals a glance at Napoleon’s pale, sickly face.

He’s never taken much stock in dreams before, nor has he had one as vivid. Thinking about it leaves a sour taste that roils up from his stomach, or spirals out from underneath the tattoo on his forearm, phantom pains and all. Illya’s explained it away with benign excuses for being overly tired or too keyed up, to the downright impossible of falling under the bewitchment of a supernatural being.

 _No,_ Illya thinks to himself as he rides along with Tilda and the other clippers on a patrol. _Just a beautiful boy with ocean blue eyes._

Another week has passed and the independent council still hasn’t come back with a decree on Victoria Vinciguerra’s guilt, causing Illya and Waverly to be highly cautious. While not a military man, Waverly has a decent head on his shoulders when it comes to not underestimating others, so there’ve been extra patrols, more clippers guarding the perimeter of the Baron’s lands, and perceived weaknesses have been reinforced.

“When do you think they’ll announce a decree?” Tilda asks as she steers the SUV. It’s a pleasant day out and the windows have been rolled down, causing the wind to ruffle the blunt ends of her chin-length bob. When they were colts, her hair had hung down her back in a thick, messy plait, before cutting it all off.

Illya shrugs. “I thought it would have already happened,” he admits.

“The Council might be waiting for the boy to regain his health enough for an interview,” she suggests, which could very well be the case. Frowning, Tilda grips the steering wheel just a bit harder. “If he even remembers. Honestly, I can’t believe the audacity of those pigs! Torturing him on _our_ Baron’s lands!”

A dull ache begins forming in the center of Illya’s forehead. He’s been hearing this on rote since coming upon Napoleon, and while he agrees that the actions of the Vinciguerra clippers are beyond astonishing, it’s exhausting to dwell on it.

Or maybe Illya’s exhausted from the troubled sleep he’s been having for nearly a week. Napoleon—the demonic version of him, anyhow—infiltrates his dreams, turning them into nightmares and causing Illya to wake up gasping for breath, half-expecting a hand to be squeezing his windpipe.

“You’re too quiet for my liking,” Tilda deadpans. A smirk teases at her mouth, lifting the corners upward. “A penny for your thoughts, Regent Kuryakin?”

He scowls at her. “Must you?” he asks, deeply hating someone who he considers a friend addressing him so formally. Illya thinks Tilda does it to get on his nerves.

“I must,” she says, giggling. “Now—what ails you, Illya? I know you haven’t been sleeping, because you look like shit _and_ you seem restless, which tells me that you are worried about this mess with Baron Vinciguerra.”

“Aren’t you?”

Tilda nods. “I am, _and_ stop deflecting. Did something happen during Council that you aren’t telling me?”

“Aside from Regent Sanders being a despicable snake? Nothing of importance,” Illya tells her, not even daring to mention the accusation Sanders lodged at him. It’ll only infuriate Tilda, and he doesn’t care to deal with her temper today.

She grips the steering wheel even tighter, causing her knuckles to turn white. “Snakes slither together,” Tilda says. “And Victoria Vinciguerra is certainly a viper for all the finery she wears.”

“Finery can only dress a person, not hide their true intentions,” Illya says quietly. Conversations like these tend to shift his thoughts towards Baron Konstantinov despite never seeing him in the flesh. But Illya can imagine what the man might have looked like, and it only makes him seeth.

“Someone is introspective today,” Tilda comments.

Illya grinds his teeth and stares at the road ahead. “Someone is intrusive today,” he parrots, hoping Tilda will take a hint.

She doesn’t. “Aren’t I always? Besides, the radio doesn’t work in this thing—”

“One of the radios works,” Illya says with an annoyed sigh.

Tilda pretends to not hear him. “—and you’re far more entertaining than listening to the wind.” She looks at Illya with her piercing blue eyes. “Not by much, though.”

“I _am_ your Regent,” he reminds her, to which Tilda gasps in mock surprise.

“Are you _really_?” she deadpans. “A dull man such as yourself? What would Oleg say about that?”

Illya rolls his eyes. “He would demand that you respect me and stop asking stupid questions.”

“Oleg,” Tilda sighs, wistful at the memory of their departed Regent. “Nothing was more entertaining than his rants when we were still colts. I even miss him sometimes.”

He misses Oleg, too, but doesn’t say so—Tilda already knows. Next to Waverly, Oleg was the closest thing Illya had to a father in this strange land, and the only other person who spoke Illya’s mother tongue. The grumpy Regent taught him the language of the Isles and gave Illya a place in a new world. “How is Odessa?”

“Odessa is fine. She says you should really get out more,” Tilda replies.

Illya knows full well that Odessa would never say such a thing. “Dare I ask what she says of _you_.”

“The last time I tried to tell you, you practically shouted down the entire barrack!” Tilda reminds him and they both laugh. “She invited you over for supper this week.”

Grateful for the topic change, Illya and Tilda discuss what day works for the three of them. He genuinely likes going to Tilda and Odessa’s cottage, where it always smells faintly of lemons, and pass a pleasant evening in their company.

Anything that will take Illya’s mind off the lack of sleep and Napoleon’s continuing presence in his nightmares. He doesn’t dare bring it up with Tilda—who will certainly howl in laughter at his expense—or anyone, really. Illya isn’t the type of person to divulge his secrets, especially ones of this magnitude.

“Trouble at the fence line,” Tilda says as she points to what’s in front of them.

On the other side of the low stone wall that separates Waverly’s land from Victoria Vinciguerra’s, a fleet of vehicles sits idle with their occupants outside of them. They seem to be enjoying the good weather, with Sanders at the helm as he smokes a cigar. He taps the ash out as Illya and his Clippers approach, but doesn’t dare cross the line between their lands.

“Isn’t it a pleasant day?” Sanders asks once Illya and Tilda’s SUV is close enough. He tilts his heads. “Too pleasant to be working, wouldn’t you agree?”

Tilda sneers at him. “And you wonder why everyone says that the Vinciguerra regime is the sloppiest out of the baronages?” she says, oozing faux sweetness. “You’re too busy slacking off.”

One of the clippers begins charging up to their vehicle, his sword drawn as he snarls, “Say that again, bitch!”

For a moment, Illya thinks the Vinciguerra fool will cross over the fence line, until Sanders’ arm shoots out to stop him. “She’s goading you,” Sanders tells him with a shove. The man stumbles back several paces. “Don’t give her, or any of _them_ , what they want.”

“What brings you towards this quadrant?” Illya asks as he gets out of the SUV, with Tilda and the other clippers following suit.

Sanders snorts, blowing cigar smoke out of his nostrils as he comes closer to the border. “Just doing our usual patrols,” he says. “You can never be too careful these days.”

“Hm, I agree,” Illya replies. “Especially with rogue clippers lurking about.” He nods towards the abashed clipper, who’s tucking his sword back into its sheath.

The dig causes the other Regent to glare at him. “You _would_ know about that, wouldn’t you, Regent Kuryakin?”

Illya barely suppresses an eye roll at the boyish taunt—he’s heard better ones said in the colt barracks. “I hope your patrol remains unexciting,” he says. “Good day to you, Regent Sanders.” Illya motions for his Clippers to return to their vehicles and prepare to continue on their way.

“Tell me, Kuryakin,” Sanders calls after him when Illya hasn’t taken more than a step or two. “How _is_ the boy?”

He freezes despite the hot flares of rage radiating from his fingertips, and it takes everything for him not to throw one of his fists into Sanders’ face. Turning around slowly, Illya frowns at Sanders. “He’s on the mend.”

“Is that all?” the other man questions as he rubs his boot in the dirt, treading dangerously close to crossing the border.

Sanders is doing it on purpose; Illya knows he is. “As far as I am aware, yes,” he says through gritted teeth.

“You know, Uncle Rudi was terribly disappointed that he wasn’t able to meet the poor boy,” Sanders tells him with a cruel smile on his poxed face as he evokes the name of Victoria Vinciguerra’s infamous torturer. “I suppose he’ll need to find someone else to occupy his time.”

Illya balls his fists, trying to keep himself from tackling Sanders to the ground. It will not do if he attacks another Regent before a decree is handed down. “I’ll be sure to convey your well wishes the next time I see him,” Illya says before walking back to the SUV.

“Yes, please do!” Sanders shouts, mockingly. “Send my regards!”

Tilda waits until he’s back in the passenger seat. “What did he say to you?”

“Nothing I haven’t heard from the likes of him before,” Illya grumbles. “Come on; we still have ground to cover.”

Thankfully, she doesn’t say another word as she starts the engine and they continue on.

 

* * *

 

“What would Uncle Rudi want with the boy?” Waverly wonders aloud.

Illya sits in Waverly’s study, watching as the Baron paces back and forth. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Then we are both clueless,” Waverly surmises as he goes to refill his tumbler of scotch. He motions towards Illya’s own empty glass and brings the decanter over to fill it. “Could he have said this to provoke you?”

The thought has crossed his mind. “With the decree still pending, why say it at all?” Illya asks. “And to be so close to the border…it’s like he’s trying to start a war, or merely causing us to think he is.”

“That’s the part I don’t understand,” Waverly says. “Why? What does Victoria have to gain?”

“Perhaps we should start with why Napoleon was in her clippers’ custody in the first place,” Illya suggests. He notices Waverly’s eyebrows rising up in questioning. “It began with me finding him, and we should find out the reason for it.”

Waverly chews on his bottom lip before humming; it’s neither agreement or dispute. “If he remembers what happened at all.”

“Has anyone asked him?”

Pressing his mouth into a thin line, Waverly shakes his head. “Napoleon’s only just turned a corner in his recovery,” he explains. “With his fever gone, perhaps Gaby will allow you to question him; I’ll ask her tonight.”

“Thank you,” Illya tells him. “Assure her that I will do it gently, and with Napoleon’s health in mind.”

“It was never a doubt in our minds,” Waverly says, smiling. “Now, that’s a good scotch I don’t see you drinking. What would Oleg say?”

Illya glances at his tumbler with a shrug. “He would ask why it wasn’t vodka.”

Several hours later there’s a knock at his apartment door, and Gaby on the other side when he answers. She steps inside without a greeting, or even asking if she can come in; she’s the Baron’s wife and can do what she pleases. And Gaby is also Illya’s friend, which by association makes an invitation unnecessary.

“I suppose Alexander spoke with you,” Illya surmises as he closes the door. When he turns around, Gaby is looking around at his living space. He’s been told by Odessa on more than one occasion that his apartment resembles an old farmhouse, from the worn wooden furniture and comfortably lived-in couches and armchairs, to the white painted walls. Illya’s kept some of Oleg’s books and knick-knacks from the Northlands, things he remembers from his childhood, but the rest are things he’s collected from over the years or given to him by friends. “See something you like?”

Gaby turns around to scowl at him. She looks out of place in her fine clothes amongst his hand-me-down belongings. “You’re a _dummkopf_ ,” Gaby says. “And yes, he did. I don’t see why you need my permission to speak with him.”

“You are his physician,” Illya replies. “Neither myself or your husband can supercede that.”

Folding her arms over her chest, Gaby raises a brow and says, “So if I say no, you’ll leave Napoleon be?”

“Yes,” Illya tells her because, honestly, he has no choice. She is the Baroness, meaning she holds more sway over her husband than Illya does as his Regent and, above all else, he respects Gaby. She has been a good friend and confidant to him when Illya finds it difficult to open up to people on the best of days.

Nodding her head in consideration, Gaby begins to peruse the paintings and lithographs hung on the walls. She must recognize some of them, since Northlanders and people from the Teutschlands share common tales and fables before stopping in front of a woodblock print. It’s a rudimentary, but beautiful, image of a man appearing out of the mists that Oleg found at some point during his life, and makes Illya wonder if Napoleon’s parents knew of the legend when they named their son.

“I nearly forgot about them,” Gaby mentions as she reaches out to trace her fingertips over the frame’s glass. A soft huff of rueful laughter falls from her lips. “The _Napoleonisch_.”

“The _Napoleonov_ ,” Illya says, teasingly. Gaby turns her head, eyebrows quirked in curiosity as Illya relents with a shrug. “Depending on who’s telling the story.”

Gaby shakes her head as her tense expression softens with an audible sigh. “You may speak with him,” she states. “ _But_ keep in mind that Napoleon tires easily and might fall asleep on you. It doesn’t mean you can wake him until you have the answers you’re seeking!”

“Yes, yes,” Illya replies, impatiently. “I know!”

She scowls at him. “Don’t take that tone with me, _kommandant_! If you want to speak with Napoleon, you must listen to me or it won’t happen until I deem him fully recovered.”

Illya opens his mouth to challenge her before stopping himself. Arguing with Gaby will only rescind her permission and leave him back at square one. “Fine,” he mutters.

“Are you going to ask him about where he came from?” Gaby says, haughtily.

He shrugs. “Where he came from and how he ended up as the captive of those Vinciguerra fools. Regent Sanders implied that Napoleon would have gone to Uncle Rudi if I had not intervened.”

“Uncle Rudi?” she gasps. “What did he want with Napoleon?”

Shrugging again, Illya says, “I’m hoping Napoleon might be able to tell me.”

“Illya,” Gaby intones, “you realize there’s a possibility that he may not remember. Or want to, for that matter.”

He remembers what the first few weeks under Waverly’s care were like for him. How Illya woke up screaming on a nightly basis from seeing his parents’ deaths replayed in his nightmares. That loud voices frightened him and he needed to sleep with light spilling in from the bathroom adjoined to his bedroom. It must be the same for Napoleon, who seems to bear his trauma with an adult’s mind rather than a child’s. “If either is the case, I shall leave the matter alone,” he promises.

Gaby takes his hand between both of hers and nods solemnly. “I know you will.”

 

* * *

 

Illya receives his summons in the form of a note written in Gaby’s neat cursive, only stating the date and time that’s been slipped under the front door of his apartment.

Many would go to Napoleon, unannounced and corner the boy to get the answers they seek; then again Illya’s been told he isn’t like most. Some of those have tried to imply it’s because of his own past, but he knows it’s not that.

It’s something else entirely—the color of Napoleon’s hair against his pillows and the redness of his parted lips. His sighs of pleasure in Illya’s ears and the taste of his skin under Illya’s tongue. The way Napoleon responds to him, feverish with the same arousal Illya feels before he transforms into a terrifying entity. Illya helplessly watches as its blackened power spreads through Napoleon’s veins, spreading to his eyes and turns them into fathomless voids and his dream into a nightmare. Napoleon touches him, smiling sinisterly as he utters the same, terrible warning— _there are only two masters in this world: pain and fear. Prepare to meet both._

He’s nearly lost count of how many times he’s woken up in his bedroom with a scream sinking its claws into his tongue and a cold sweat on his skin.

This recurring nightmare tells Illya two things that he’s known deep down since Napoleon came crashing into his life—he’s attracted to the boy _and_ he’s afraid of what he may find about himself, should the boy be able to answer his questions. Glancing down at the circular tattoo on his forearm, Illya stops brushing his teeth and stares at it. His eyes have traced over the delicate linework more times than he can recall; for better or worse it’s ingrained in his mind.

Illya continues with his morning routine—showering, drying himself off, dressing—before making himself breakfast. He reads one of Oleg’s books while he eats, doing things to keep his mind from wandering to Napoleon. Compartmentalizing has been Illya’s way of coping since he was a child, though today it hardly works because the blue flowers painted onto the worn china plate are the exact color of Napoleon’s eyes. The words printed on the pages are whispered into Illya’s ear with Napoleon’s voice. He’s never been one to obsess but Illya supposes there’s a first time for everything.

When Illya finally goes to see Napoleon, he’s practically buzzing out of his skin. Gaby’s arranged for them to meet in the privacy of the sunken garden, where it isn’t too far of a walk from the main house. Besides, with clear skies and warmer weather, the fresh air might be good for Napoleon after being confined to bed.

Illya finds him easily enough and takes a moment to watch Napoleon unawares. Wearing a loose cotton shirt with trousers, and suspenders crossing over his back, he sits at the wrought iron table while picking, nervously, at a leaf in his hand. Underneath Napoleon’s clothing lies the healing wounds and yellowing abrasions, and Illya can’t help but wonder if the boy’s reminded of the assault when he looks at them.

Or if he even remembers.

The breeze rustles Napoleon’s dark waves, causing Illya’s dreams of Napoleon’s hair spilling on his pillow to push themselves to the forefront of his mind. He is truly beautiful, but even beauty can be dangerous—Victoria Vinciguerra is a perfect example of it.

Illya makes his way to Napoleon, who notices his approach and turns around. The first thing Illya sees—besides the boy being fully clothed—is that his unhealthy pallor has been replaced by rosy cheeks to match his sparkling eyes. Napoleon goes to stand, only stopping when Illya raises his hand and says, “That’s unnecessary.”

Napoleon stares at him as he slowly sinks back into his seat, his expression giving nothing away about how he feels about their meeting. “The Baroness mentioned that you wanted to speak with me,” he says, jumping straight into the conversation.

“Yes,” Illya replies as he sits across from him. “Has she told you that the Baron’s Council is investigating the actions of the Vinciguerra clippers?”

“She said that an independent council is supposed to announce a decree once they’ve completed their investigation,” Napoleon tells him with a shrug. “It’s taken them a while.”

Illya nods, full-heartedly agreeing with the boy. “It has.”

“Why do you think that is?” Napoleon asks, tilting his head.

He mirrors Napoleon’s body language. “I think Baron Vinciguerra has important people in her pocket as does Baron Waverly, and it’s causing a delay in a decision.”

“So it’s a pissing contest?”

“In layman’s terms, yes,” Illya says, trying not to chuckle at Napoleon’s frankness. He doesn’t know what he expected of him, to be honest. A meek and traumatized boy, an angry patient—not someone who looked Illya right in the eye, unflinchingly. He finds it oddly refreshing. “But I think you know that I’m not here to talk about them.”

Napoleon shakes his head. “You want to know where I came from and why I was with them.”

“That’s a start,” Illya replies.

The boy frowns and looks away. “How do I know I can trust you?” he asks, cautiously.

 _Because I saved your life_ itches at his vocal cords, but Illya doesn’t dare say it. He’s seen the look on Napoleon’s face reflected in his own and knows what it means—that he’s been hurt badly and can’t bring himself to trust anyone without wondering what they’re after. In this case, Illya finds himself guilty of it. “I suppose the events that brought you here must have colored your perceptions of people,” Illya gently points out. “We can start where you want to and stop when you’ve had enough, but if there is a topic we talk about that you wish to stay between us, it will. Deal?”

Napoleon lifts his head, stunned. What he expected—probably being forced to divulge everything about himself—isn’t going to happen. “You’re a Regent,” he whispers.

“I also know what it’s like to be a victim of violence,” Illya tells him. “I came to the Isles as a child and Baron Waverly’s found me mute and wandering.”

Napoleon wrinkles his brows. “What happened to your parents?”

“They’re dead,” he says. “Murdered by our Baron’s clippers because my father had been his Regent, and it’s illegal for clippers from the Northlands to have families. We were fleeing.”

“You saw it happen,” Napoleon says.

Illya nods. “I saw it happen,” he confirms, not mentioning that he can recite every detail of that day, right down to what his mother was wearing and the color of the tattered scarf around his neck. How his father went out valiantly, roaring in grief when his mother was struck down where she stood. Or seeing blood staining the rocks underneath Illya’s feet.

Napoleon tucks his bottom lip under his teeth, worrying it until it turns to the shade of red Illya remembers from his dreams. “Do the nightmares ever go away?” he asks, carefully. If it weren’t for the sudden brightness in his eyes before he blinks it away, no one would know he dreams of it nightly.

Illya decides to answer honestly despite knowing the possibility of paying for it later if Gaby finds out. “Not entirely.” He notices Napoleon’s shoulders deflate and adds, “It will get easier as time goes on.”

“You don’t _actually_ believe that, do you?” Napoleon questions. His mouth curls upward on one side into a smirk and it’s the closest thing to a smile Illya’s seen out of him.

He shakes his head. “Not really, but aren’t people supposed to say that?” Illya watches confusion wrinkle Napoleon’s features before hearing the choked off laugh erupt from him.

“Did you just make a joke?” the boy asks, still chuckling. “For a moment, I almost believed my abbott.”

“Your abbott?” Illya says.

Napoleon realizes what he’s revealed and nods, slowly. “I was at the monastery on one of the Little Sister islands,” he intones.

The Little Sisters are a cluster of islands between the Isles and the Continent. They were sparsely populated before its inhabitants migrated to either side of the Channel and, to Illya’s knowledge, only wildlife lives there.

 _Interesting,_ Illya thinks and files it away for later. “You don’t sound like you’re from the Isles.”

“I’m not. I was born in the Vinlands before the abbotts brought me to the monastery,” Napoleon admits. It explains his accent, or lack thereof. He shrugs. “I barely remember being there in the first place—just snippets of things that never make sense.”

Illya understands; it’s how he recalls his childhood in the Northlands. “What about your parents?”

“What about them?” Napoleon replies, impersonally.

“You must have—” Illya begins to say when Napoleon cuts him off with a scowl.

Illya watches Napoleon swallow, taking in the way his throat muscles roll under his skin and thinks of how much he wants to press his lips against it. “I _have_ parents… The abbotts came for me when I was too young to remember them, or even being in the Vinlands in the first place.”

Napoleon looks down and begins tapping his fingertips against the wrought iron table top. It makes a dull, barely audible sound unless someone strains themselves to hear. “I guess the monastery was always home,” he finally says.

“Was?” Illya asks him as he cocks his head. “Before the Vinciguerra clippers abducted you?”

The same blue eyes that haunt his dreams look at him, swirling with the aftermath of surviving a violent attack. Illya sees the fear, anger, sadness, and remorse he felt in the wake of his parents’ brutal murders written into Napoleon’s expression. “Before they slaughtered everyone inside,” he says. “Everyone, but _me_.”


	3. Chapter 3

“Once they were able to dock their boats, the Vinciguerra clippers killed the guards first, followed by all of the Abbotts,” Illya explains.

He sits in the study with Waverly and Gaby. One of them has shut the door, but despite this they speak in low voices in case one of the servants decides to eavesdrop. Neither Waverly or Gaby say a word, so Illya continues relaying the scant details he was able to get out of Napoleon before he asked to be returned to his room. “The Clippers gathered the apprentices in the courtyard—those who fought were immediately slaughtered. One of them asked which one of the apprentices was Napoleon Solo, the surname given to all apprentices when they arrive at the monastery. Napoleon stepped forward with the belief that they would spare the others if he complied.”

“Then what happened?” Gaby asks, quietly. Her face has gone as white as the hand she uses to clutch her husband’s jacket.

She already knows the answer to her own question, but Illya clears his throat and tells her anyway. “One of the Clippers had a drawing which he used to ensure that Napoleon wasn’t playing them false before they slapped irons over his wrists. The order was given to murder anyone else that had been left alive,” he says, not bothering to add that there wasn’t much Napoleon could have done. Thinking about what might have happened if he had tried is something Illya would rather not dwell on and, that alone, is a new, uncomfortable feeling. “Someone knocked Napoleon unconscious and by the time he came to, they had already brought him back to the mainland.”

It’s the sort of tale no one expects to hear but results in a mixture of anger and sympathy, so neither of their reactions are all that surprising. Gaby whispers _those bastards_ under her breath while Waverly reflects on what Illya has told them in his usual stoic way.

The frustrating part of all is that Illya’s no closer to finding out what Victoria Vinciguerra wanted with the boy. Poor treatment—beating and starving him, for starters—aside, the Clippers never said where they were taking Napoleon or why. Only that with each passing day he was further from home and at the mercy of men who abused him.

“I didn’t know anyone lived on the Little Sisters,” Gaby says.

Waverly makes a sound of acknowledgment. “They’re largely abandoned, but I’ve heard rumors of a monastery on Gersui. Their apprentices are children with…interesting talents.”

“Interesting talents?” Illya repeats, questioningly. He’s almost afraid to find out what this could mean.

The Baron clears his throat and mumbles, “The dark arts.”

Illya blinks, trying to comprehend what Waverly has just said aloud. “Dark arts,” he echoes as a sickened feeling sours his stomach. A thousand scenarios run through his head, from the absurd to the outlandish. Each one features Napoleon—holding a blood-soaked dagger over a dead body, or praying to an unseen deity under the full moon. “Like witchcraft?”

“No, I dare say not,” Waverly replies with a chuckle. “Do you recall those volumes you borrowed on _Ancien Régime_ folklore, specifically the last one?” He waits for Illya’s nod. “It’s believed that the type of magic used to harness what was happening in the world gave birth to a generation of people— _Tenebrosi_.”

He mouths the word, trying to think of the translation. “The Dark Ones,” Illya says with uncertainty.

“Precisely. The monastery Napoleon has spoken of was probably meant to protect and teach children with these abilities so they could learn to control them. Wielding such extraordinary power could damage a _Tenebrosi_ in both body and mind until they die,” Waverly says.

“Or be dangerous to enemies of those who came to possess one of them,” Gaby states.

Waverly nods. “I imagine Victoria also heard the rumors.”

“But sir,” Illya begins to say. He looks between Waverly and Gaby in disbelief. “It’s _just_ folklore! A bedtime story to tell a child.”

The Baron shrugs. “Is it, though?”

“Yes!” Illya answers, sharply. “Napoleon is a man, just like you or I.”

Gaby reaches for her husband’s hand and says, “But why would Victoria seek him out? Why go to the Little Sisters just for one boy and slaughter the rest?”

“Perhaps he’s the son of an enemy and she found out where he had been sent,” Illya reasons.

She scoffs. “Victoria Vinciguerra’s reach is great, but to the Vinlands? I doubt she’s even seen a map of the place,” Gaby tells him. “There’s something about Napoleon that she’s deemed important. Something she wanted Uncle Rudi to figure out.”

“Or she wanted to torture an unsuspecting boy,” Illya snarls.

Gaby folds her arms over her chest. “Do you truly believe that?”

Unexpected anger bursts from him, lighting up his core as he shouts, “I don’t know!” The words leave Illya winded and fighting the urge to flee. Ever since he carried Napoleon through the front door, with the boy’s blood staining his clothes, Illya’s been haunted by him. He sees him in dreams and nightmares, yearns to feel their bodies pressed together, needs to taste Napoleon’s mouth.

Napoleon is just a beautiful boy with a bloodstained past just like Illya’s own. He’s just a boy, not a wielder of dark powers meant to maintain the world’s fragile balance.

Running his hand through his hair, Illya realizes that it’s trembling. “If you’d excuse me.”

He leaves before he’s given permission.

 

* * *

 

Illya finds his way back to the sunken garden in the dead of night with a crisp breeze cooling his skin.

And he’s not the only one.

He stops at the top of the stairs and catches Napoleon’s silhouette, illuminated by the fiery glow of lantern light. It casts a golden hue to his already pale skin where it doesn’t drive away the shadows hugging his sculpted features. There’s something about seeing the boy like this that brings Waverly’s story back to the forefront of Illya’s mind—that his dark gifts are bewitching him and causing many sleepless nights.

“I thought I would be the only one out here,” Napoleon says. An impish grin tugs his lips upward before it disappears.

Illya descends the stairs slowly, with his eyes trained on the boy as rocks crunch under his boots. “As did I,” he replies as he notices that, unlike himself, Napoleon isn’t wearing a jacket and it’s not exactly the warmest evening. Frowning, Illya says, “The Baroness will be quite vexed if you catch a chill.”

“I think the Baroness is aware that I’ve been through much worse than a cold night,” Napoleon bites back, oozing sarcasm. He shrinks into himself, turning away from Illya and staring into the night. Napoleon doesn’t want a fight or to be fought. He just wants a moment to breathe without someone hovering around him which, given the circumstances that brought him here, has made it hard to do so.

Pulling out the other chair, Illya takes a seat. “She may be aware of it, but getting on Gaby’s bad side is ill-advised.”

Napoleon snorts softly. “Gaby, eh?” he asks, cheekily. “Has the Baron been made aware of you calling his wife by her given name or is it an agreement with the three of you?”

“You are trying to push my buttons,” Illya states. Annoyance causes his fists to begin itching.

“So what if I am?” Napoleon snarls, pouting his bottom lip out like a child. He folds his arms over his chest; whether it be to reflect his emotions or to keep warm, Illya doesn’t know.

Illya continues staring at him and the way the lantern light reflects off Napoleon’s slick lips. “It will not work.”

Napoleon’s head whips around, revealing a mixture of surprise and aggravation on his face. It’s very different from what Illya has seen of him thus far, allowing for a rare glimpse into who Napoleon might be under normal circumstances. Smart-mouthed, fiercely stubborn, vulnerable—each trait peels away to reveal a new layer for Illya to find. “I see the anger boiling under the surface,” Napoleon bluntly tells him. He motions his chin towards Illya’s knuckles. “You’re curling them so tight that the skin pulls white. Is it so I won’t be able to notice how they tremble or to keep you from punching me?”

Illya glances down at his white-knuckled hands and instantly uncurls them. “Nervous tick,” he answers, calmly.

“No, it’s not,” Napoleon replies. He leans forward, pulling his chair with him as he comes closer into Illya’s sphere. The shadows drift over his face, changing him from a boy to a warrior and back again. “You have a temper, Regent Kuryakin. It’s just that you don’t want anyone to know it.”

He scoffs because, frankly, the boy’s reverse psychology is more than what he’d expect for an apprentice raised on an island in the middle of nowhere. “Is that what they taught you at the monastery? To read my thoughts.”

“A good deal more than that,” Napoleon challenges as a jackal-like smile reveals his white teeth, making him appear more like the creature from Illya’s nightmares. He leans back in his seat and shrugs casually. “I’m afraid it’s a bit above your comprehension, Peril.”

Illya rolls his eyes. “Of course it is,” he mutters. “And that’s not my name,” he adds a second later.

The fact that Napoleon’s smile doesn’t fade makes Illya’s stomach clench. “I know,” he practically purrs, moving again. His body heat radiates through Illya’s jacket, revealing their close proximity to each other before Illya’s mind can catch up. He could probably count every one of Napoleon’s eyelashes or find freckles on his skin if it were light out.

“You are overstepping,” Illya growls. He doesn’t move; he doesn’t want to, as he fights the irresistible urge to throw Napoleon onto the table and have his wicked way with the boy.

With his eyes focused on Illya’s face, Napoleon wets his lips with his tongue. “But am I?” he asks, moving closer still. He nudges Illya’s jaw with the tip of his nose, chuckling softly under his breath. “Am I, Peril?”

He grabs Napoleon’s face with both hands, yanking the little deviant away from himself to stare into the dark spheres of his blue eyes. Illya frowns at the boy’s laughter and how soft he appears by lantern light. _You should not be this beautiful_ , he thinks, because it’s true. No one should look like Napoleon Solo.

“Am I truly overstepping, Peril?” Napoleon questions, softly. He raises a dark eyebrow, quirking it shamelessly.

Hearing his voice—the luster of passion and sharp edges of goading—fills Illya with a yearning he cannot explain. Unable to restrain himself, he pulls Napoleon to him and crushes their mouths together. Sinking his fingers into the dark threads of the boy’s hair, Illya tugs to coax Napoleon’s chin up and lick his way in between his lips.

He wants to taste him, wants to feast on the sounds he’ll cause Napoleon to make, wants to walk away from this encounter with bruised and swollen lips. Illya swallows one of Napoleon’s moans, taking it into himself as the boy’s hands cradle his hips. He teases Napoleon open until Illya feels the first swipe of his tongue against his own.

A sudden, sharp pain radiates from his bottom lip before the bitter, metallic tang of blood leaks onto his tongue. His vision turns fiery as he grabs Napoleon by his face and watches him laugh. It echoes high above the garden, towards the night sky until the roar in Illya’s ears drowns it out.

Then it stops. Like someone has cut his strings and Illya stands frozen, feverish, and exhausted. Napoleon continues laughing from the other side of the garden, where he props himself up with a grunt before wrapping his arm around his stomach, ignoring the bewilderment on Illya’s face or the cut high on his own cheek, which will certainly be a spectacular bruise by midday.

Gaby will have his head once she finds out, but Illya doesn’t care about that. He’s trying to figure out how Napoleon ended up over _there_ when he was pressed against Illya only moments ago.

“I knew it,” Napoleon cackles with blood staining his lips and teeth. He drops his head against the stone wall while his shoulders tremble with amusement. “I knew it was true.”

Illya blinks. “What was true? What are you talking about?” he demands, trying to ignore Napoleon’s taste in his mouth, and the rising tide of bile coming from his stomach.

“You don’t know?” the boy asks, no longer laughing as Illya shakes his head. “You don’t know what you are? How is this possible?”

He balls his shaking fists, trying to tamp down the fire burning within him. “Stop speaking in riddles!” Illya shouts, not recognizing his own voice. “And tell me what you’re going on about!”

“Did you not feel it?” Napoleon asks over the sound of approaching footsteps.

Illya feels _something_ —the all-consuming sensation of an unnamed entity sinking its claws into his very soul, taking more than he could possibly give. It’s unrelenting, torturous, _draining_ except he’s as keyed up as he’s ever been. Illya swears to himself that he hears the roots growing under his feet and whispers carried on the breeze.

“I don’t feel anything,” Illya lies before spinning on his heel and running away. He pushes passed Waverly and several of the foot servants, their calls drowning under the sound of his own heart slamming into his chest.

He runs from Napoleon’s pitying stare and puzzling answers and keeps running until he’s done convincing himself that he doesn’t need to hear them anyway.

 

* * *

 

He wakes up hot.

Hot _and_ sticky with sweat. As Illya kicks the quilt towards the footboard of his bed, he quickly comes to the uncomfortable realization that his clothes are stuck to his skin. Debating the merits of peeling them off, he realizes he doesn’t want to move more than he has to and lets out a disgruntled sigh.

As Illya wills himself back to sleep, he tries ignoring how his entire body wallows in the sensation of overuse. It’s familiar; from colt training or wandering through unknown terrain towards Baron Waverly’s lands. A slow building ache that turns into a deep-seeded agony Illya only has vague memories of, as it’s a rarity for him to experience it. He’s seen Oleg, even Tilda and other clippers complain about the soreness of their muscles, but never heard himself mention it.

Now that he thinks on it, Illya cannot recall a single time he’s been sick. Even when stomach bugs and viruses ran rampant through the colt barracks, he never caught them. Illya credited it to the hardy disposition of being from the Northlands and no more was said.

 _Strange,_ Illya muses as he sinks further into exhaustion before forgetting his thoughts entirely.

 

* * *

 

He has the strangest dream of waking again to blood dripping freely from his nostrils and down his face where it soaks the pillows on his bed and the front of himself.

In his dream, Illya is barefoot as he stumbles helplessly through his apartment—knocking things asunder—and out the front door towards the main house, unaware of the tiny rocks cutting into the bottoms of his feet. They carve pockets in his skin, pinching with each step or going deeper when he stops himself from tripping.

Through the thick morning haze, he finds himself within a scant ten yards of the main house and nearly collides with Napoleon. The boy grabs Illya by the biceps to keep him from tipping over as he says, goodnaturedly, “Watch where you’re going, Peril.”

In his dream, Illya is dazed and bleeding from his nose and feet, staring uncomprehendingly at Napoleon as he notices the blood dripping down Illya’s face, staining his throat, on the white cotton of his shirt. He doesn’t hear Napoleon’s gasp or the worried tone of his voice as he takes Illya by the shoulders and says, “Illya?”

He dreams of his eyes rolling into the back of his skull as he falls—keeps falling—until Napoleon catches him, screaming for help and, later, Gaby’s orders for a stretcher.

He dreams of scorching heat under his skin and the horrible sensation of sinew and bone melting away to reveal the darkness underneath it all.

Illya realizes it isn’t a dream, but it doesn’t matter as he sinks into the abyss and knows no more.

 

* * *

 

_Illya remembers darkness._

_And the hot burst of blood and ashes._

_Blood staining the rocks along the shoreline and his mother’s dress._

_Blood dripping from a jagged gash severing his father’s neck and filling his own mouth._

_The iciness of night and chill of darkness swirling around his wrists and ankles, tether him in place._

_The misty chains and tales of a bewitching creature born from them._

_“Still trying to escape?” the darkness asks, screeching like fatigued metal._

_Napoleon’s mouth crushed against his own and the taste of him on Illya’s tongue._

_Darkness filling his veins like it had done to Napoleon in his nightmares, burning through Illya’s body and threatening to tear him apart as he screams._

_“When will you learn? When will you understand, Illya?” the darkness tells him. “The two masters are intertwined. Pain and fear are the things that govern you.”_

_Screaming and screaming until he thinks he might expire._

_Until he hears Napoleon and his words cutting through the blackened hellscape. Illya doesn’t understand him—he doesn’t try to—as he follows the sound of the boy’s voice until—_

“You’re a _blödel_ ,” Gaby says.

Of course an insult would be the first thing Illya hears as he drifts back to consciousness. He feels unbearably warm—feverish, he realizes—and like he’s been used for sparring practice. Illya’s entire body _hurts_ , for lack of a better word because finding the right ones is more difficult than opening his eyes.

Illya tries blinking against the weight keeping his eyelids stuck together, forcing himself to attempt to pry at least one of them open, before giving up with a hoarse moan. The air around him shifts as Gaby moves to fetch something; a damp flannel as it turns out. She lays it over his forehead, smoothing it until it’s flat on his skin.

“Better?” she asks.

He nods—or, at least, he _thinks_ he does—as Gaby brushes his hair off his forehead like his mother used to do when he was a child. Illya thinks of the bitterly cold Northlands and the warmth of his childhood home and the fever pulsing through his veins.

Because he knows what’s happening to him—he’s sick.

“What?” Illya tries to say, but it comes out brittle and dry. Gaby hushes him with impatience as she brings a cup to his chapped lips. He drinks the contents with slow sips, minding his weakened body.

When he’s finished, Gaby sets the cup aside and begins patting the flannel over his face. “You were delirious with fever for two days,” she explains. “Then in and out of consciousness for three more once it broke.”

Perhaps it’s the surprise of hearing this or his body cooperating, but Illya’s able to pry both eyes open to stare at Gaby’s worried face, before noticing the unfamiliar ceiling looming overhead. He realizes in quick succession that it belongs to one of the guest rooms in the main house. Illya tries to speak and finds his voice failing him once more.

“You’re still very weak, Ilyusha,” Gaby tells him as if she’s sensing his growing frustration. She pats down his overly warm neck, then both cheeks. It feels heavenly against his skin. “Don’t fret—Tilda will watch over colt training and the clippers while you recover.” Setting the flannel aside, Gaby retrieves a new one to place over his forehead. “You’re lucky Napoleon found you on the lawn when he did. Your fever was so high that we had to put you in an ice bath!”

He notices the worry pulling at the corners of Gaby’s eyes and mouth, drawing them tight despite her efforts to smile. Illya clumsily reaches for her hand and misses, but Gaby understands. She does the rest for him, since he seems to have used the last of his meager energy.

Kissing his knuckles, she says in fond exasperation, “Rest now. The worst is over.”

Neither dreams or nightmares interfere with Illya’s sleep, which is a pleasant change from before when he was plagued by them.

Everyone seems to think they’re what’s partly to blame for the sharp turn in his usual robust health, and Illya isn’t about to naysay them. He nods because it’s the only thing he can do to mask his silent disagreement; there’s something strange and otherworldly at the root of this.

From the moment Napoleon fell into his waiting arms to the apex—Illya’s very last coherent thought because the fever took hold of him—culminating during their fiery kiss, a different entity has been at play. He doesn’t dare voice it because, honestly, it would be too difficult to put into words and the only person who would understand has stayed away.

“Napoleon finds great enjoyment in partaking in ride alongs with the clippers,” Gaby explains one evening as she spoon feeds Illya some broth.

Illya nearly chokes when he hears her and looks at Waverly, who has been keeping himself busy with a book in the corner of the room. “You’re _allowing_ this?” he croaks.

“He’s just as safe with Tilda and the others as he would be here,” Waverly reasons without looking from the pages. “Besides, it’s better to have Napoleon out and about than going stir crazy indoors.”

“But the Vinciguerra—” Illya begins to retort when Waverly looks over the rim of his glasses at him. The decree came down the day after he took ill and found the deceased Vinciguerra clippers guilty, while Victoria was declared innocent of the charges. Even still, she’s had to pay a generous sum to Napoleon and Illya can’t imagine her being pleased.

He smiles, kindly. “They have retreated to lick their wounds and refill their coffers to replace the gold they have lost,” Waverly assures him. “You’ll be pleased to know that Tilda has stationed clippers along the border.”

“Regent Sanders won’t cower so easily,” Illya intones. “What if he launches an attack? He could kill many of our people, even you and Gaby. We need to be prepared!”

Waverly sighs, shaking his head. “We _are_ prepared thanks to you and Tilda,” he replies as he rests a hand on Illya’s blanket-covered knee. “When you are well, we can discuss further additions to our security but for now, you must regain your health, or my wife will have both of our heads.”

Illya hears Gaby’s soft snort as she tries to stifle her laughter. He catches her winking at her husband, who does the same. _She’ll probably have my head long before yours,_ he thinks with amusement. “Has there been any reports of rumblings from the Vinciguerra baronage or any of their allies?”

“Quiet, hence why we’re still on guard,” Waverly tells him. “You and Oleg have taught me well, Illya. We will do our best to keep them from retribution.”

He nods; it’s a gentle dismissal and not because Waverly doesn’t value his opinion. Illya is still unwell and should be using his energy to regain his health before worrying about what Victoria Vinciguerra may or may not do. “I would like to thank Napoleon for coming to my aid,” he says.

“I will let him know,” Waverly says. He gestures to the bowl in Gaby’s hands. “Now…”

“Are you certain that’s all you’d like to thank Napoleon for?” Gaby teases once Waverly has left the room. She smirks at Illya’s scowl. “Did you think that my husband wouldn’t tell me of how he found you two or that I hadn’t noticed the way you look at him?”

Illya’s cheeks begin to burn from something other than a fever. His encounter with Napoleon must be the stuff of legend and all over the baronage. “Must you do this _now_?”

“While you’re at my mercy? Of course!” Gaby replies as if this was the most obvious answer in the world. He notes a bit of dismay that Illya would ever think otherwise. She laughs in his face before saying, “Don’t worry, Alexander mentioned it to only me.”

He scrubs a hand over his face. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“I’m not sure,” Gaby says. “Does it?”

“ _You_!” Illya hisses over Gaby’s laughter. When she’s finished, he says more quietly, “I don’t know what to make of it.”

Gaby leans on the mattress, her elbows and palms propping up her chin, and asks, “How come?”

Shrugging, Illya finds he doesn’t have an answer…not a good one, at least. “I am uncertain.”

“Do you want it to happen again?”

“You already know the answer to that,” Illya replies. Gaby’s always been able to read him, whereas others find Illya impossible to decipher. The corners of Gaby’s mouth curl into a satisfied smile because she _does_ know the answer, and probably before Illya did. “Napoleon hardly left your side until you were out of danger,” she tells him. “Even then, it was difficult to get him to go back to his room.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Illya chuckles, bemused by the boy. “Is that why Alexander allows him to accompany Tilda on the patrols?”

Reaching for his hand, she shrugs. “Not that I mind his company, it keeps Napoleon out of my way so I may focus on your recovery.”

“Was he bothersome?”

“Not at all!” Gaby says as she shakes her hand. “He fretted a great deal as if _he_ was the cause of your illness.”

Illya makes a noncommittal sound. While he doesn’t believe Napoleon made him sick, his presence has unleashed something. What it is, Illya cannot say. Perhaps when they have a moment alone, he will have the chance to ask Napoleon what he meant that night, and why Illya had been able to throw him across the garden so easily.

The possible answers frighten him, but no more than not knowing.


	4. Chapter 4

Napoleon comes the day Illya is free to return to his apartments, under orders of strict bedrest and absolutely no entertaining thoughts in which he goes back to his duties until Gaby declares him completely healed.

He accepts this, begrudgingly, since there’s no diswaying Gaby once she sets her mind to something and he’s at the point of doing and saying anything just to be left alone. Being under near-constant watch has Illya chafing at the bit, and as soon as his front door shuts, he goes to the couch where he basks in the quiet. He decides to get up after an hour of sitting and pads into his bedroom, expecting to find the leftover mess he made of the sheets. Illya finds them freshly pressed without telltale signs of his blood stained into the fabric. The rest of the apartment is the same—suspiciously clean like someone has gone to an awful lot of trouble so he wouldn’t have to. Even the pantry is filled to the brim with food and his clothes laundered, then put in their proper places. He wonders if his vambraces have been oiled while he was indisposed, but doesn’t check.

The very idea of it brings fatigue on its heels, so Illya strips down to his underwear and crawls under the blankets on his bed. He’s met by the very faint scent of lemon and allows himself to think of springtime as he drifts off for several hours.

Persistent knocking on the front door rouses him as it reverberates through his apartment. Whoever’s doing it doesn’t seem to care about Illya’s recovery, or their fists, for that matter, judging by how hard they’re banging. Grumbling, Illya kicks the blankets off his body and stumbles around while he searches for his trousers and shirt on his way to see who it is. It’s neither Tilda or Odessa—both of whom would have waited until morning to see him—or even Waverly and Gaby.

“Coming!” Illya shouts loud enough for the person to hear, and the knocking mercifully stops.

When he opens the door, he finds Napoleon standing on the other side. His knuckles are pink from all the noise he made and it matches his cheeks. Illya isn’t certain if it’s from embarrassment or from the cold front Adele mentioned earlier in the day. He wears another work shirt that’s been unbuttoned to reveal his sternum and the fair skin hidden underneath. “You came,” Illya says, stunned, as he meets Napoleon’s stare.

“I did,” he replies. Shoving both hands into his pockets, Napoleon bounces on his heels with an expectant look on his face. “Are you going to let me in?”

Illya steps aside as his cheeks burn. “Yes,” he says. “Yes, please come inside.”

A smirk appears on Napoleon’s face as he passes by Illya. “Baron Waverly mentioned you wanted to see me,” he says while looking around. Despite not having touched anything, Napoleon already seems at ease in Illya’s home and Illya isn’t sure what to make of it.

“I wanted to thank you,” Illya says as he shuts the door, “for what you did. Saving my life.”

Napoleon turns around, his expression unreadable; stormy, even. “It was nothing, Peril. What’s that old saying—no good deed goes unpunished?” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

“An eye for an eye,” Illya gently corrects. “I’m not just talking about you finding me on the lawn.”

The boy raises a brow and if Illya hadn’t had Oleg as his mentor, he wouldn’t have noticed the way Napoleon’s jaw slightly twitches. “Oh?”

“The Baroness mentioned you hardly left my room until she said that I was out of danger,” Illya says, not bothering to mention the fever-dream of Napoleon’s voice guiding him into the conscious world. Hearing him felt real enough, but he’d rather not take the chance of making a fool out of himself. “Thank you.”

The tops of Napoleon’s cheeks flush while he tries to appear nonchalant; Illya finds it rather charming. “You’re welcome. If you haven’t anything else to add, I’d…”

“We share the same tattoo,” Illya states, baring his forearm to Napoleon. “I’d like to know why.”

As he looks at the ink etched into Illya’s skin, Napoleon doesn’t seem surprised. “So we do. Lovely design, don’t you agree?”

“Don’t be glib,” he snaps. “You told me that night that you knew it was true. What was it?”

“That you were a good kisser,” Napoleon purrs, batting his eyelashes. He steps closer to Illya. “If you’re feeling up to it, I think we ought to have another go.”

His arm shoots out, pushing the boy back—anything to keep him from answering Illya’s questions. To keep himself from giving into his pure want and fucking Napoleon through his mattress. “I know what you are doing, Cowboy,” he growls. “It won’t work.”

“I think it might,” Napoleon challenges, amused. He stares at Illya from underneath the black fan of lashes framing his heated eyes, and licks his lips; it paints a pretty picture of lust and desire. All it would take was two steps, and Illya could have Napoleon.

God, he wants to. “Something happened after you bit me, as if a monster was trying to claw its way out,” Illya tells him, remembering the sensation of wanting to destroy and conquer. He hadn’t been able to name it then, but now with a clear head he can. “It’s what caused my illness, isn’t it? What happened between us…it triggered whatever this is.”

“And yet you told me that you didn’t feel anything,” Napoleon says with disinterest.

“I lied,” Illya snaps back. “Now, tell me what you did!”

Napoleon’s shrill laughter fills the room. “What _I_ did?” he says, mockingly.

“Yes!” Illya shouts as he pokes Napoleon in his sternum. His skin feels warm under Illya’s finger, and smoother than he imagined. Napoleon’s a blank canvas for him to mark up and call his own. “What did you do to me?”

The boy scoffs at the question. “You— _we_ —were born like this!” he shouts back as he rolls up his sleeve, revealing his own forearm. “That’s why we bear this mark—the mark of the _Tenebrosi_!”

“You’re lying,” Illya snarls. He grabs Napoleon by the wrists and pulls, bringing him closer. “I wasn’t born like you. You’ve cursed me!”

Napoleon laughs in his face. “Cursed you?” he shrieks in dark amusement. “You believe I have the power to _curse you_ , Regent Kuryakin?”

“It’s what you did when you kissed me, why I nearly died from a fever—” Illya rants.

“You idiot,” Napoleon says as he shakes his head in amazement. “You truly have no idea what you are. Don’t you remember receiving the mark?”

When Illya doesn’t reply, Napoleon’s eyes widen as he steps away from him, leaving Illya to stand there, helpless and confused. “I’ve always had it,” he confesses as he touches his forearm. “There isn’t a memory where it wasn’t always a part of me.”

Confusion wrinkles Napoleon’s brows as they knit together, and his mouth opens to say something. An inarticulate sound passes through his lips before it shuts, leaving them immersed in heavy silence. Without asking, Napoleon goes to sit on the couch where he hunches over in thought.

Illya decides to fix them drinks, which they clearly need. In the kitchen, he listens for signs of Napoleon leaving as he dumps ice cubes into each glass before adding vodka. He carries them into the living room, where Napoleon has gotten up to look at the etchings on the walls. “That is the _Napoleonov_ , a mist creature from the Northlands,” he tells the boy.

“What did they do? Lure men into bogs and slaughter them?” Napoleon asks, lightly.

Offering him a glass, Illya shakes his head. “You’re thinking of sirens,” he says. “These are benevolent creatures—too proud to be seen, but kind enough to guide lost travelers away from danger.”

“It sounds like a bunch of bullshit to me,” Napoleon replies as he takes a sip of his drink. He winces at the vodka’s bite, but swallows without complaint.

Illya ignores the comment. “Didn’t your abbotts tell you stories at night?” Napoleon’s silence is telling enough, so he asks, “Have you always known what you were?”

“The abbotts brought me to the monastery when I was a child,” the boy replies, turning to him. “So yes, Peril. I’ve always known.”

Illya downs his glass before going to pour himself another. Napoleon follows after him saying, “The _real_ question is how did you go on this long without your gifts being tapped into? Being a Regent and going into battle…it should have triggered you.”

“Perhaps I’m a late bloomer,” Illya grumbles as he fills his drink.

“Doubtful,” Napoleon deadpans. “You’re different, Regent Kuryakin, and there’s only so much I can guess before coming to the same conclusion.”

Illya rolls his eyes as he lifts the glass to his lips. “Enlighten me,” he says before drinking.

“Something was done to keep you from manifesting your gift,” Napoleon tells him. “But I don’t know how or why.”

He sets the glass down on the counter with a loud thunk. “And you think I do?” Illya asks, unable to hide the frustration from his voice. “I’ve been an orphan, a colt, a clipper, and Regent, but a _Tenebrosi_ …how did I not know? And what of my parents?”

“Perhaps they sought out a witch who was able to obstruct your gift,” Napoleon suggests. “You said they fled the Northlands when you were a child because Regents weren’t allowed to have families.”

Illya grits his teeth and forces himself to nod; he already doesn’t like where the boy’s hypothesis is going. “Yes; and your point being?”

“Could it be possible that they were fleeing to the Little Sisters to claim sanctuary? That they wanted to keep you from becoming a weapon?”

Blood drains from his face, leaving his cheeks cold, before Illya realizes the glass in his hand has slipped through his fingers and shatters on the floor. He blinks, then curses at the mess surrounding his feet, and that he’ll have to clean it up. As he goes to bend over, Napoleon grabs him by the arm.

“Don’t,” he orders, pushing Illya away. “You’ve only just been allowed to be out of bed.”

Dumbstruck, Illya finally understands what Napoleon meant about the gift—if he can bring himself to calling it that—being triggered in battle. “When blood is spilled…” he muses aloud while Napoleon carefully picks up shards of glass and dumps them into a bin.

“The gift will activate,” Napoleon interjects. He grabs a towel from the sink to soak up the vodka. “By doing that, your body is depleted of its natural energy stores and causes an untrained _Tenebrosi_ to become…” He looks at Illya, his eyes bright with a silent apology. “We can become ill.”

Hearing the explanation doesn’t surprise Illya in the way it should; he already surmised as much during the rare moments Gaby and Adele left him in peace. “I see,” he says. “And when I threw you across the garden?”

“Your gift,” Napoleon tells him. The mess has been cleared away and the towel thrown in the bin with the glass. He leans against the counter, watching Illya with apprehension. Even with the gravity of this situation hanging over their heads, Illya can’t help but think that Napoleon looks exquisite. “Having it ignite for the first time and with such great power was too much for you to handle. What I can only guess is that your body began attack itself thinking you had an infection.”

Illya frowns as he mulls over what Napoleon has said; probably too long judging by the nervousness coming off the boy in waves. “So what happens now, Cowboy?”

“You regain your health and we’ll sort the rest out,” he replies. He gives Illya a hard look that would make Gaby proud when he begins to argue. “You _are_ still healing, Peril.”

“I know my limits,” Illya grumbles. He bristles when Napoleon snorts. “I do!”

Napoleon holds his hands up in mock surrender. “You _knew_ your limits,” he corrects as gently as he can. “And now they’ve changed.”

Illya snatches another glass and pours more vodka into it. “I can’t believe this,” he mutters into his drink before consuming it. The vodka burns his throat and warms his belly, but does nothing to wash away the madness that’s entered his life.

“Start believing, Peril,” Napoleon says as he pries the bottle from Illya’s fingers and drinks the vodka straight from it. He winces at the burn. “Strong stuff. It might put hair on my chest.”

Finishing the rest of his glass, Illya begins following Napoleon’s lead by drinking from the bottle. “It’s Northlander vodka; my Regent used to keep some in a flask,” he explains. “He was also a Northlander.”

“How did he end up here?” Napoleon asks.

As he passes the bottle to Napoleon, Illya shrugs. “By bartering passage from one of the coastal ports,” he says. His mentor had been a complex man and said very little of his past. He taught Illya a great deal, both as a colt (and later clipper), and as a boy far away from his homeland. It was under Oleg’s tutelage that Illya lost his thick Northlander accent and perfected one from the Isles.

 _To blend in more easily,_ Oleg told him once; perhaps in the very kitchen in which Illya stands. _You must learn to adapt and to understand your surroundings. We are but two out of a handful of Northlanders living in the Isles. While I believe the men who murdered your parents would have done the same to you had you not escaped, being prepared for their retribution is important. Always be prepared!_

“That’s all?”

“That’s all,” Illya replies. He watches Napoleon’s mouth wrapped around the bottlehead and turn red when stretched out. He wonders if it’d look the same on his cock, if Illya would find it so divine as it happened.

Napoleon snorts into the vodka. When he’s finished, he passes the bottle back to Illya and wipes his mouth on the back of his head. “He sounds like a real charmer.”

Protectiveness flares up in his chest. “Oleg was a good man,” Illya snaps. “He taught me everything I know.”

“So _that’s_ where you get your winning personality from,” Napoleon teases. A lazy smile forms on his lips as he gazes at Illya with heavy-lidded eyes. “I should have known it wasn’t from the Baron!”

Illya grits his teeth together, thinking how just when he makes progress in his relationship with Napoleon, or comes close to finding equal footing, the boy throws him for another loop. He’s getting tired of it; but then again, it could be the alcohol in his belly.

“Oh come on, Peril,” Napoleon admonishes as he steals the bottle from him. “It was only a joke. Or do Regents not believe in those?”

“Only good ones,” Illya deadpans while he watches Napoleon swallow down another mouthful of vodka, and thinks how much he would like to run his teeth over Napoleon’s throat. He would like to do many things to the boy: trace the topography of his body with his hands and mouth, bury himself deep inside of him, learn how to make Napoleon moan or scream. Anything to drive Napoleon insane with pleasure, until he begs for release.

Cheeks puffing from holding alcohol in his mouth, Napoleon catches Illya staring and raises one of his dark eyebrows. He swallows and purrs, outrageously unashamed, “See something you like?”

It’s a blatant invitation that some might consider rude or vulgar. Illya’s heard far worse said in pubs, the colt dormitories, or even between his fellow clippers. When the words come out of Napoleon’s plush mouth, he makes it sound seductive, captivating—like poetry written by long-dead authors and from the days of yore. Pretty prose meant to romance or invoke a similar feeling.

Pure want ignites the blood in his veins, because all it would take was just a few steps and he could have Napoleon’s back pressed against the counter as he debauched his mouth. Illya could take him to bed and keep him there until morning, until he _had_ to resume his duties. He could strip Napoleon naked and taste his skin, and fulfill all of these desires.

But he won’t. Not right now. Not when he feels so weak and lost, and drunk, for that matter.

He snatches the bottle from Napoleon, waving it in the boy’s face as if he were holding a strip of meat in front of a dog. “This,” Illya says, smirking.

The resulting screech is well worth holding off his desires for the time being.

 

* * *

 

He spends the next week following Gaby’s strict orders for bed rest.

Being idle has never sat well with Illya, even as a child, but he knows if he wants to get back to his Regent duties—and sort out his newfound abilities—he’ll have to resign himself to listening. The first day isn’t so bad, thanks to the pounding in his head in part to the now empty bottle of vodka stashed in the rubbish bin. He sleeps for most of it, save when Adele comes with a tray of food or Illya needs to relieve himself.

The second day is when his confinement begins to chafe at him. Illya tries to occupy his time with rereading the third volume on the _Ancien Régime_ , scouring through the pages for any information that might help him uncover something about the _Tenebrosi_. The text only gives him half-notions and vague ideas written by those who leave out important details.

Frustrated by the lack of progress in his research, Illya drifts into the next day and the day after that. His invisible bonds leave his skin prickling at any indication of the freedom of others. He scoffs at the grounds staff trimming hedges and tending to the plants below his window, or seeing Clippers change shifts. Somewhere Napoleon is out on patrol with Tilda, enjoying the wind ruffling his hair and flowing between outstretched fingers—Illya hates thinking about it, but he does anyway.

Then his thoughts drift to winding Napoleon’s raven hair around his own fingers and the darkness residing in them both. He thinks of Napoleon’s fingernails raking the skin between his shoulders and his long legs draped over Illya’s hips. The sound of his moans as Illya plunders Napoleon’s body, and how he might whisper Illya’s name when he finally cums.

Imagining these things and more causes desire to stir in Illya’s groin. He really ought to be taking it easy, but ignoring his hardened, pulsing length is something he simply cannot do. Illya takes himself in hand and strokes, not bothering to fetch the bottle of oils in the bedside table. The precum leaking from his slit is more than enough for his purposes. Illya closes his eyes against the rush spreading through his body and stifles Napoleon’s name from being moaned aloud as he cums.

He lies in bed afterward, breathing hard as he stares at the ceiling and wonders if Napoleon has any idea of how much Illya wants him.

And if he wants Illya just as badly.

 

* * *

 

Tilda and Odessa come visit him on the fifth day of his convalescence, bringing a basket of homemade jams (and two of the lemon custard he loves so much), biscuits, and a bouquet of wildflowers.

“To brighten up the place,” Tilda says of the flowers while she fills a vase with water. She casts a smile over her shoulder. “Perhaps it will do the same to your winning personality.”

Odessa scowls at her. “Tilda!” she hisses, shaking her head before turning her attention back to Illya. She reminds him of a porcelain doll with her delicate, perfect features and smooth olive skin. She’s sylphlike and soft spoken, though it’s not to be confused with weakness. Illya thinks most people would be surprised to find how fiercely brave and loyal Odessa is rather than just a pretty face. “Ignore her,” Odessa tells him.

“I find it rather difficult to do with how infernally loud she is,” Illya sighs as he picks at a biscuit.

Tilda makes an offended sound. “I’m _right_ here!” she protests.

“Do you hear that?” Illya says to Odessa. “It must be a strong wind!” He watches Odessa snort into her teacup as she dissolves into giggles.

Despite Tilda’s best attempts to stay annoyed, she can’t for long. Once the bouquet of lavender, baby’s breath, and lilies are in the vase, she brings them over to the table and sets it in the middle. “There,” Tilda says, admiring her and Odessa’s handiwork. “It looks nice, doesn’t it?”

“Thank you for bringing them,” Illya tells her as he goes to touch one of the sprigs of lavender, when Tilda slaps his hand away. “Hey!”

She shakes her head. “No touching!” she orders.

“I think your being in charge is starting to go to your head,” he grumbles while rubbing his stinging knuckles.

“Napoleon would disagree with you,” Tilda retorts. With a smirk, she goes to fetch them plates and some knives for the jam. “Then again, he was convalescing and never got to see you in action.”

Illya rolls his eyes. “This again,” he mutters, looking at Odessa, who remains neutral by shrugging. She’s smart for never intruding in their petty disagreements. “For the last time, there’s nothing going on between myself and Napoleon.”

“ _But_ you’d like there to be,” Tilda answers, singsonging, as she comes over with the plates and sets one down in front of him. “If I were attracted to cock, I’d say that Napoleon is rather beautiful.”

Scowling at her does nothing and neither will denial—Tilda knows Illya too well to fall for it. “I’d rather not talk about this,” he says.

There’s a brief moment where he thinks she’ll press on, until Odessa gives her a pointed look and shakes her head. “What did the Baroness say about your illness?” Tilda asks, changing the subject.

“A virus,” Illya replies. “At least, that’s what she believes it to be.”

Tilda passes Odessa the basket of scones. “For as long as I’ve known Illya, he’s never been ill,” she says. “Even when the entire colt dormitory came down with the flu, he managed to escape it.”

“We were built to be hardier in the Northlands,” Illya says, lamely.

She scoffs. “Come up with a better excuse, Kuryakin, because you say that _every time_!” Tilda tells him. “And pass the raspberry jam, will you?”

Grunting, he pushes the jar towards her and stops when it comes just within reach of Tilda’s fingers, if she leaned over. “Now you’re just making that up,” Illya says.

“And you’re just a big oaf,” Tilda fires back as she swipes the jar.

“Who is still your Regent,” Odessa says, sweetly, as she spreads jam onto her scone.

Tilda glares at her. “Who’s side are you on?”

“Clearly, the one with more common sense,” Illya replies, grinning when Tilda turns to him. “I’ll be back to my duties soon enough.”

Odessa giggles while Tilda rolls her eyes. “You’re all work and no play, Ilyusha,” she continues to complain, like she’s never mentioned this before.

“Just because I don’t talk about the times I do play doesn’t mean it’s never happened,” Illya argues. He’s not like the other clippers and never has been. Illya tends to keep his liaisons to himself—being entangled with another is what got his parents killed, and has gotten his clippers into fisticuffs more often than not. With Napoleon slowly needling his way under Illya’s skin, it’s already become messy and dangerous.

Not to mention, nearly killed him as a result.

“Illya,” Odessa calls. When he blinks, he realizes she’s touching his arm. “Are you alright?”

Swallowing, he nods. “Still a bit out of sorts,” he half-lies. More than anything, Illya wishes he could reveal the cause of his illness and what he truly is, if the ramifications weren’t so great. Odessa, Tilda, the Baron, Gaby, and everyone Illya knows, could be killed if his nature was found out. After all, the very same happened to Napoleon’s loved ones when the Vinciguerra clippers came for him.

Simply put, it’s too dangerous.

“See,” Tilda says as crumbs tumble from her lips. “You’re going to be laid up for a while, Kuryakin! I suppose I ought to tell the colts that you aren’t _actually_ superhuman.”

Illya groans. “Odessa,” he says, ignoring Tilda, “would you mind passing me the lemon custard?”

After spending a pleasant afternoon with two of his closest friends, Illya lies down once they leave—or at least, he tries to. It’s difficult with his mind running at full speed, trying to decide the outcome of his newfound abilities and what his parents might have done to protect him. He wonders if Napoleon’s right—that they weren’t fleeing the Northlands because of an archaic law, but because of Illya being a _Tenebrosi_.

Illya doesn’t remember much of their flight; only the day his parents were slaughtered in front of his very eyes, and how he fled in a rickety boat across the Channel. His mind—the mind of a child—blocked out the rest in order to survive, until he managed to lock it away and forget entirely.

Sitting against his headboard, Illya wishes Oleg was still alive. As cantankerous as he was, Oleg seemed to know what to do when Illya felt lost. He seemed to notice signs before anyone else, and it makes Illya wonder if Oleg looked past a traumatized boy to find a _Tenebrosi_.

 _You must have known_ , Illya thinks as he looks down at the mark and traces over it with his fingertips. He turns to the dresser where he keeps Oleg’s old vambraces wrapped in a handkerchief Lydia embroidered. “Contrary bastard,” he whispers.

He expects Oleg to start admonishing him for disrespecting his Regent, but no rebuke comes, since the dead never speak aloud.

 

* * *

 

“A volume of the _Ancien Régime_ mentions the _Tenebrosi_ ,” Napoleon says, awed, when Illya shows him.

Scratching the back of his head, he half-shrugs. “Honestly, there wasn’t much to be said.”

“I’m surprised it even mentioned us at all,” the boy tells him as his eyes dart across the pages. Napoleon wrinkles his nose in obvious distaste. “Pandora’s Box? Really?” He turns to Illya and complains, “They liken our kind to a living embodiment of a Greek myth.”

Illya tilts his head, observing Napoleon as his attention goes back to reading. “Is that such a bad thing?”

“It’s insulting is what it is!” he grumbles. “Who wrote this pile of garbage?” Turning the book over, he squints at the worn, nearly indecipherable gold foil lettering on the cover. “Well, Azra Zephyr PhD, you are wrong. You can’t explain away something as complex the _Tenebrosi_.”

Biting his lip, Illya suppresses a snort; he thought the author did a good enough job for someone not familiar with the idea of a single being carrying the world’s darkness within themselves. “Oh, you can’t?”

“Don’t patronize me, Peril,” Napoleon hisses. “My fellow apprentices and I were taught that nature has to maintain a status quo. Where there’s life, there’s death…”

“Where’s there’s light, there’s darkness,” Illya finishes.

Napoleon faces him, smirking incredulously. “And here I thought you were going to be a slow learner.”

Groaning, Illya buries his face into his palms. “You don’t become Regent by being _slow_ at anything.” Hearing the boy chuckle at his expense doesn’t infuriate him in the way he thought it would. Despite having very little knowledge of what he is, Illya knows he’s no fool. “So, Cowboy, enlighten me in what I _should_ know about my true nature,” he challenges.

“What you should know?” Napoleon echoes as he folds his arms over his chest and leans against the desk with his backside. His piercing stare makes Illya uncomfortable, but whether the boy realizes it is another story. “I think there are many things you _should_ know, but it’s neither here nor there that you ended up in your Baron’s lands rather than the monastery.”

Illya raises a brow. “What can I say? I have good luck.”

“Good luck,” Napoleon says darkly as he turns to the book. “Luck has nothing to do with what we are. It’s our predetermined destiny.”

“Fate,” Illya says.

Napoleon glances at him and shrugs. “Aren’t those the same thing?” Illya goes to answer before Napoleon cuts him off. “And I thought _I_ was the one teaching today’s lesson?”

“Apologies,” he says, holding his hands up and absolutely certain that he’s never surrendered an ounce of authority to anyone, much less this high-strung boy.

A sarcastic grin appears, then quickly vanishes. “As I was saying, the _Tenebrosi_ provide balance; it’s what we were born to do—not created, but born.” Frowning, Napoleon shuts the book. “This nonsense about magic used to make us what we are…it’s a children’s tale. We were born from the world’s darkness, its violence, and all the atrocities—if anything, we are magic in its purest form.”

“Meaning what?” Illya asks.

“Meaning we are peace and war, dark and light, life and death,” Napoleon explains. “We _are_ balance.”

Illya furrows his brows in confusion. “Then why call us the T _enebrosi_? Why only tell half of the tale?”

“Balance, Peril,” Napoleon repeats. “Think about it—pure darkness broken up into pieces, or a _Tenebrosi_.”

He glances at his forearms; both of his sleeves have been rolled up, exposing the tattoo to the open air of his apartment. Illya covers it with his palm. “You lived in the monastery.”

“Correct,” the boy says.

Illya swears he feels the mark burning his skin—or it might be Napoleon’s unnerving stare. “Did they teach you to control it?”

“They did,” Napoleon answers, softly. “As you experienced, untrained, the gift can cause the user to go into a frenzy and drain themselves to the point of death. You were lucky.”

He nods. “I was lucky you were here,” Illya whispers, lifting his eyes to meet Napoleon’s. “When one is trained, what can they do?”

“We can activate the gift without having to draw blood, as well as experience enhanced agility, resilience, reflexes, strength, and stamina,” Napoleon tells him. There’s no jesting in his tone or body language—only the same honesty Illya has seen in several instances. “Very rare individuals have been known to be able to heal themselves and others with just a touch.”

A doubtful expression appears on Illya’s face, tugging his mouth down at the corners and sending his eyebrows upward. “ _That_ sounds like bullshit.”

“Says the one who didn’t believe in any of this nearly a week ago,” Napoleon counters, narrowing his eyes knowingly at Illya. He sighs. “Granted, the _Tenebrosi_ tend to heal quickly but not within seconds.”

“But I didn’t heal quickly,” Illya says.

Napoleon shrugs. “You also didn’t die,” he points out. “Call it a gift within a gift, Peril.”

“I told you to stop calling me that,” he growls.

The boy snorts. “Clearly I haven’t been listening.”

Illya’s only ever been called by his given name, Ilyusha, sir, or Regent Kuryakin, and as far as he knows, no one’s dared to do otherwise except for this beautiful boy with his impish smile and teasing manner. Napoleon speaks to him without regard for decorum or titles; Illya is just another man, no more special than the next—something he tends to forget.

“Perhaps it’s a good thing that you are a _Tenebrosi_ rather than a colt,” Illya tells him. “You would have gotten lashed until there was no skin on your back.”

Napoleon smiles goodnaturedly as he leans against the desk, showing off the length of his body. Watching him be so at ease with himself in a way that many men who are twice his age aren’t is unnerving and tantalizing. Honestly, Illya thinks Napoleon acts this way because he has an audience. “Let me guess,” he says. “You were the teacher’s pet.”

Illya clenches his jaw.

“Ah ha!” Napoleon exclaims as he slaps the tops of his thighs. “I should have known! Tell me, Peril, does this teacher have a name? Could we compare notes?”

“Oleg,” Illya replies despite a desire not to.

Much to his surprise, Illya watches as Napoleon’s gleeful expression falls. “Your former Regent,” he says, quietly. “I’ve heard stories that Regents lose their command in a battle to the death…”

“Some, but not all. Oleg died from stomach cancer,” Illya tells the boy. He turns away from him and walks to the open windows to breathe in fresh air. He remembers the day Gaby diagnosed Oleg and how the fearsome man came charging down from the very apartment they’re standing in, shouting for Illya until he found him in the barracks.

_“I don’t have long,” he said once he pulled Illya aside. “But from this day on, you will listen to everything I tell you because when I die, you’re the one who will take my place.”_

In retrospect, Illya thinks Oleg was training him to do just that from the very start. “He lasted five months before he passed,” he whispers. An unexpected lump forms in his throat and causes his voice to go hoarse. He hasn’t felt anything since his parents’ murders, so why should Oleg’s death be any different? Maybe there was some relief in knowing that Oleg was no longer suffering, as the cantankerous man was buried, and Illya moved from the Clipper cottages to the apartment he resides in now. “So no, Cowboy, not all Regents die violently.”

He hears the floorboards creaking under the soles of Napoleon’s boots as he moves across them. Illya only turns once sensing that the boy is behind him, and expects for him to mock Illya’s pain. What he finds is a mixture of sorrow and sympathy written into Napoleon’s features, and Illya thinks of how truly stunning this creature is.

“Illya,” Napoleon intones. With hesitation, he comes closer until they are breathing each other’s air. Unlike their first encounter in the sunken garden, Napoleon doesn’t try to goad Illya. He just stares at him, _through him_ , _into him_ before touching his bottom lip—the very one he bit—with his fingers. Napoleon traces over it as if Illya is still fragile and weak.

He opens his mouth, allowing for two of Napoleon’s fingers to slip inside and brush against his tongue. They taste salty, as one would expect. He stares into the boy’s blue eyes as he licks at his skin until he notices a hint of spice underneath the first layer. Because that’s all either of them are—two men trapped under layers of flesh, sinew, blood vessels, and something darker only known to their kind.

Napoleon pulls his fingers from Illya’s mouth, whispering his name—which sounds lovelier than Illya imagined it to be—before sealing their lips together. He touches him, his hands everywhere on Illya’s body: the span of his shoulders, cupping the sides of his face, touching the back of his neck. Napoleon tugs on the front of his shirt, pulling Illya closer with a moan.

Illya’s hands dig into Napoleon’s hips, anchoring him in place as a pained, needy sound becomes lost between their lips. Finding a way under his shirt, Illya spreads his fingers wide to immerse himself in Napoleon’s warmth and tips his head back, exploring the depths of his mouth and discovering his taste. He knows he shouldn’t be doing this for various, practical reasons: they’re both too vulnerable, it’s too dangerous for them to become even more entangled than they already are, they’re too different from one another…

His mouth moves across Napoleon’s cheek, his jaw, down the elegant column of his neck, and worries the skin he touches with his teeth. Illya hears Napoleon’s hitched breath, almost a hiss, when he nibbles on Napoleon’s fair collarbones. He traces their lines with his tongue, going from one side to the other. Napoleon whines, grinding their hips together, and Illya groans in reply. Illya decides right then and there that he doesn’t give a single fuck for the consequences. He’s had enough of fantasizing about being inside of Napoleon; he _needs_ it to happen _now_!

“Illya,” Napoleon cries with more urgency as he pulls the ends of Illya’s shirt from his trousers.

“I know, I know,” he replies as he walks them back towards the bedroom. If Illya bothered to look, he’d find a trail of their discarded clothing, but he’s far too occupied with the softness and warmth of Napoleon’s skin under his palms. He’s dreamt of touching him like this, of hearing his moans vibrating against his mouth, and now he has him.

And, by God, Illya is going to take his time with Napoleon.

He eases Napoleon onto his unmade bed, admiring the contrast between his dark hair and the white sheets underneath the tousled waves. Illya kneels between Napoleon’s spread thighs, ravenously looking over his naked body and appreciating the sight of a man seemingly sculpted from marble. He runs his hands over Napoleon’s chest, teasing his nipples into hard points before venturing to the peaks and valleys of his stomach.

As Illya dips lower and lower, his ministrations are met by Napoleon’s gasp. “Are you alright?” Illya asks, forcing himself to look away from the flushed, leaking head of Napoleon’s cock.

“M’fine,” Napoleon says as he squeezes the sheets bunched in his fists. “I’ll tell you otherwise—just keep going!”

Of course, Napoleon _would_ be bossy and demanding in bed. Illya chuckles to himself as he places an open-mouthed kiss to Napoleon’s hip, and runs his teeth over it for good measure. “One second,” Illya says into Napoleon’s skin before leaning over the bed to open the table beside it. He fetches a bottle of oil that he uses on himself, or the rare instances he’s brought a lover back; now he gets to use it on Napoleon.

“ _You’re_ taking too long,” Napoleon tells him, impatiently.

Illya looks over his shoulder to find Napoleon propped up on his elbows with a pout on his already swollen mouth and decides that this boy is far too coherent for his liking. He wants Napoleon speaking in tongues or, better yet, making an assortment of sounds reserved for pleasure. Tossing the bottle towards the other man, Illya drags him across the sheets by his ankle to pull Napoleon into a bruising kiss. “And _you’re_ talking too much,” he growls against Napoleon’s lips, biting them.

Napoleon hisses and wraps his legs around Illya’s waist, thrusting their erections against each other in rebuttal. It makes Illya see sparks behind his closed eyes and for that, he worries a bruise just under the boy’s collarbone before licking it for good measure. He’s rewarded with a filthy rendition of his name whispered hoarsely into his ear as Illya reaches for the bottle, uncapping it and pouring some of its contents onto his fingers.

He doesn’t ask _you’ll tell me if it hurts_ because he knows Napoleon will—if anything, Napoleon has proven himself to be a mouthy, petulant pain in Illya’s arse. Illya leans over him, trailing his slick fingers down the length of Napoleon’s torso, over the line of dark, coarse hair that grows thicker around his cock, and between the crease of his arse cheeks until he finds the puckered surface he’s imagined. One of these days—perhaps today, even—he’s going to lick his way inside of Napoleon, but for now…

Illya wets the furl of Napoleon’s hole until he deems it sufficiently slick and Napoleon sufficiently desperate before sinking the tip of his finger in. It’s a—pardon the terrible pun—tight squeeze; he has to take his time with loosening Napoleon enough for his first knuckle to disappear inside. He feels the hitch of Napoleon’s breath contracting around him before actually hearing it. Illya glances up the length of Napoleon’s body, finding Napoleon’s jaw slack, eyes squeezed shut, and mouth open in silent exclamation of a man on the verge. He drinks in the sight and commits it to memory, because he _wants_ to remember this moment—when they finally said fuck it and gave in to their desire.

He bends over Napoleon, pressing his lips against each rib while he works his entire finger inside of the boy. He tastes the sheen of sweat on Napoleon’s skin and chases the charming pink flush with his tongue. Illya thinks every part of Napoleon is intoxicating and made to be worshipped. As he caresses the back of the boy’s thigh with his free hand, Illya’s finger slips into Napoleon and plunges into the piping hotness of him. Napoleon’s hips rise from the bed as a sharp cry pierces the air before it tapers off into a moan.

The second finger goes in easier than the first and Illya finds Napoleon’s prostate, which he abuses just to hear that strangled cry fall from his lips. He continues stretching Napoleon open for his cock and only pauses to dole out more oil. Illya wants this to be good for Napoleon; probably more than for himself.

“Illya,” Napoleon groans. When he looks at him with glassy, nearly black eyes and, for a horrible moment, Illya thinks his gift— _their_ gift—has been triggered. Then he sees the thin ring of blue around Napoleon’s pupils and sighs with relief.

Flexing his fingers a final time, Illya eases them out of Napoleon and goes to slick up his cock. He looks at Napoleon, expectantly, waiting for a sign that he’s changed his mind. Smiling, Napoleon reaches for him as he whispers, huskily, “c’mere” and seals their mouths together. Illya swallows Napoleon’s chuckle, tasting the warmth of it on his tongue while he grabs a pillow to shove under the boy’s hips. In a matter of moments, Napoleon’s going to become Illya’s lover and there’s no going back for them. They share a gift woven into a tapestry of bloodshed and pain, and now they’ll have _this_.

His cockhead catches against Napoleon’s loose and slick hole, causing Illya to hiss as his desire spikes. Illya takes a moment to collect himself, strict in his resolve not to rush this. He listens to the sound of his heart thumping inside his chest and his breathing commingling with Napoleon’s. There’s the rustle of sheets against their bare skin and Napoleon’s stuttering sigh as Illya pushes himself past the tight ring of muscle and feels Napoleon’s entrance swallow his length.

“Oh fuck,” Illya moans, dropping his forehead onto Napoleon’s shoulder. He feels surrounded, devoured, completely bewitched by the sensation of being _inside_ this beautiful boy— _his_ _lover_ —and shudders. Illya relaxes into Napoleon’s hands rubbing slow circles over his shoulders while he kisses away the sweat from Illya’s temples. The touch is like a balm to Illya’s nerves.

Then the rest of the world fades—there’s only Illya and Napoleon inside of Illya’s bedroom as they writhe on the bed. If time stood still or ended, neither of them would care so long as Illya can feel Napoleon’s body against his own. He just wants Napoleon and he’s wanted nothing more than him.

He fucks into him, striking Napoleon’s prostate with each thrust while Napoleon’s howls fill the room. Illya groans and curses when his lover clenches around him, flailing wildly as Napoleon rides the shock of it out. His desperate, wordless keens direct Illya to do it again, and Illya’s only too happy to oblige. He does it again and again until Napoleon has no other choice but to scream his pleasure for the entire baronage to hear.

“Illya!” Napoleon cries, bearing down on Illya’s length as he cums between them, untouched and splendid. His release coats their torsos and smears messily as Illya continues thrusting into the tightness of him.

With a curse, Illya feels his control slipping through his fingertips until a jolt of white-hot pleasure sets his spine on fire. His orgasm slams into him, taking Illya’s breath and voice with it, as he thrusts once, twice and spends himself inside of Napoleon’s body.

And he welcomes the dizzying free fall like an old friend.


	5. Chapter 5

“How many do you have?”

Feeling a bit put out from being woken up by Napoleon’s incessant questions, Illya adjusts his head on his pillow and says, “One hundred.” They’re lying side by side in Illya’s bed, stark naked and willing their breathing to return to normal while Napoleon touches his Clipper markings. More silence follows, giving Illya a false sense of hope that he’ll be able to drift off again, until Napoleon’s fingers come upon a ticklish spot under his rib cage and he sighs, cursing himself for not realizing sooner that this is going to be a lost cause. “Stop it,” he growls.

Napoleon ignores him as he brushes a hand across Illya’s shoulders, then down the column of his spine. “You’ve killed one hundred people,” he muses aloud. He sounds more impressed than appalled. “Does that include the men who took me?”

“If I say yes, will you let me go back to sleep?” Illya deadpans, earning a swat on his rump for his trouble. He grits his teeth in annoyance.

“Well?” Napoleon asks.

Illya rolls from his stomach to his back to find Napoleon hovering over him like the very image of a debauched saint. His dark hair curls messily over one eye, obscuring it from view, while a post-coital flush still lingers on his skin. It makes sense seeing how it’s only been ten minutes in half as many days since they began…whatever this is.

Then again, Illya can’t help but reap the benefits of Napoleon’s sex drive. “I’ve been too preoccupied with baronage matters to schedule time with the marquist.”

“ _Just_ baronage matters?” he teases knowingly as he tilts his head and stares at him. Napoleon bends down to press his lips against Illya’s shoulder, tasting the sweaty skin with his tongue. “I find that hard to believe. What about the bed rest you’ve been ordered to do?”

“I’m in bed,” Illya points out with a sweeping gesture. “And I _was_ resting until an imp began peppering me with questions.”

Napoleon scoffs. “Imp,” he says, dismissively, as he rolls his eyes.

“I’m talking about you,” Illya tells him as Napoleon snaps, “I _know_!”

“You know, Peril, you need to relax,” Napoleon comments. He slides down next to Illya, propping himself up on an elbow, with a leering smile on his lips. “Take a load off. Stop being so damn serious all of the time!”

It’s Illya’s turn to roll his eyes, and begins to wonder if Napoleon has been talking to Tilda. He’s heard it on rote from her, Gaby, Adele, and even Waverly—which is almost insulting, as the man is possibly one of the most serious people Illya’s ever encountered. Next to himself _and_ Oleg, of course. “What tales has Tilda been telling you?” he asks.

“I don’t need to listen to _gossip_ in order to read someone,” Napoleon says, sounding insulted that Illya would infer such a thing. He pokes the tip of Illya’s nose. “They taught you about body language in Regent school, didn’t they?”

Illya smirks, cheekily, to keep his laughter from escaping and shrugs. “I’ve been sworn to secrecy,” he replies.

“Why am I not surprised?” Napoleon says, sarcasm oozing in his tone. Throwing a leg over Illya’s hip he straddles him, but not before pinning Illya’s wrists to the mattress. “I have ways of making you tell me.”

“Do you?”

Napoleon nods; he looks ravenous like this, and even more so when he licks his lips. “Uh huh. I have it on good authority that you enjoy that trick I do with my tongue.” He wags his brows as he bends to mouth an invisible trail down Illya’s throat. “ _Really_ enjoyed it, judging by the way you moaned the last time I did it.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re incredibly arrogant?” Illya grumbles, despite raising his chin and sighing into the way Napoleon licks his skin. “I’m surprised the Baroness managed to find a room in the main house to fit your ego!”

The boy chuckles. “Luckily I’ve been sleeping elsewhere,” he whispers against Illya’s pulse, sounding entirely too smug for Illya’s liking.

It’s not that Napoleon is lying. He’s spent more time in Illya’s apartment than in the guest room, and knowing this has Illya feeling both gratified and on edge. He’s not one to share his bed or body for longer than a night, and the fact that Illya has woken up to Napoleon lying beside him or his lips wrapped around his cock for an early morning blowjob…well, it’s strange. Not unwelcomed, but strange all the same.

“You’ve gone quiet,” Napoleon comments. He lifts his head, staring at Illya in half-curiosity, half-amusement. “Don’t think too hard, Peril.”

Cursing in his mother tongue, Illya rolls Napoleon off of him to huddle under the blankets with the intention of taking a nap. Just as he’s hoping his lover gets his not-so-subtle hint, Napoleon says, “You still remember how to speak Northlander.”

“It’s not something one forgets,” Illya grumbles into his pillow and decides that hope is fickle.

“I suppose not,” Napoleon agrees. “Tell me something else.”

Illya shakes his head. “No, Cowboy.”

“Don’t be like that, Peril!” A moment passes before Napoleon pulls the blankets down and utters a sultry promise. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

His cock twitches at this. “Oh?”

Napoleon nods as his hand slips under the blankets gathered below Illya’s navel and finds his cock soon after. Swirling his thumb around Illya’s wet slit, he smiles. “Something like this, maybe?” He fastens his mouth around a nipple, working the nub to full hardness. “Or this,” Napoleon says, popping off to repeat the process on the other, stroking him while Illya writhes under him. He moves lower, licking his way down Illya’s body until…

“ _O Bozhe_!” Bracing his hands against the headboard, Illya lets out a strangled moan as Napoleon’s mouth engulfs his cockhead.

Napoleon groans around him, blue eyes fluttering shut as his tongue drags over the underside, then the flared edges of Illya’s head.

The sensation practically liquifies Illya’s spine. “ _Ty khorosh v etom_ ,” Illya compliments as he buries his fingers in Napoleon’s hair. “But you already know that, don’t you?” He tugs on the wavy strands, earning a muffled whine in reply. “ _Prodolzhat_.”

Whether or not Napoleon understands him, he relaxes his jaw and takes Illya deeper into the hot cavern of his luscious mouth. Illya gives into the sensation of Napoleon’s tongue pressing against the vein leading up his shaft as he wets him with his salvia, or how he pulls back to give sufficient attention to his leaking slit, then swallowing him down again.

Illya runs his thumb over Napoleon’s cheekbone and down through the hollow where he feels his own cock pressing against the inside of Napoleon’s mouth. He watches as Napoleon lets Illya slip from between his lips to tongue the ridge, then tease his head before redoubling his efforts and taking Illya deeper. He swallows around him, tongue pressing against the thin tissue of his frenulum. “ _U vas yest’ rot, sdelannyy dlya etogo_ ,” Illya tells him, uncaring of the hoarseness in his voice.

Like the little imp he is, Napoleon winks up at him, eyes glassy and bright, painting a pretty picture with his swollen, red lips wrapped around Illya’s length. It’s too much for Illya; he needs to be inside of him. Napoleon is still loose and wet from before, even after Illya licked his own cum from his hole while stroking Napoleon to a second orgasm.

“Napoleon,” he gasps, tugging him up. He doesn’t need to articulate what he wants; Napoleon’s already straddling his hips as Illya reaches for the bottle of oil.

“Let me,” Napoleon says as he grabs the bottle and pours the contents onto his fingers. Leaning forward with a heavy-lidded grin, he catches Illya by the mouth as he slicks up his cock. He tastes salty—of himself Illya realizes as his cockhead breaches Napoleon’s hole—and of mischief, if such a favor existed. Napoleon doesn’t wait for either of them to adjust as he takes Illya completely into himself with the determination Illya’s come to expect from his lover. “I want you,” Napoleon murmurs against his lips and grinds down. “How do you say deep in Northlander?”

Illya groans at the request. “ _Gluboko_ , but I think you mean _uidti glubzhe_ , Cowboy.”

“What does that mean?” Napoleon asks as he reaches for Illya’s hands. He slides them down his sides to his hips, holding them there.

He squeezes Napoleon’s fingers. “Go deeper,” Illya answers, thrusting up and dislodging a ragged cry from Napoleon. He does it again, if only to hear that lovely sound once more.

Eyes closed, mouth hung open, and a flush spreading from his cheeks down to his throat, Napoleon nods fervently. “Yes,” he says. “Yes. _That_!” he cries when Illya does it again, pushing into the depths of him and holding himself still at the very end.

“Napoleon,” Illya whispers into the skin over his heart. The sparse, coarse sprinkling of chest hair tickles his lips and cheeks. “ _Vy chuvstvuyete sebya nastol’ko khorosho_.”

“You feel so good,” Napoleon says, breathlessly, as he meets Illya’s movements like he understands what Illya is telling him in Northlander; it wouldn’t surprise him if he did.

He surges forward, Napoleon lunges back to meet Illya at the crux, until a symphony of their moans and curses fill the bedroom. Illya doesn’t allow himself to slip more than a centimeter or two out of Napoleon to make good on his tawdry request. Being so deep inside of Napoleon and holding him down, keeping him there for the taking makes Illya’s blood turn molten, as if his fever has returned. Instead of nightmares, it’s the sight of Napoleon reaching for his own hard cock to stroke himself with one hand, while the other goes to pinch a nipple. Illya watches, intent on remembering, because damn him if he ever forgets this image for colder nights in the future.

“Harder,” Napoleon rasps with the same desperation Illya recalls in the weeks before they finally gave in and slept together.

“ _Sil’neye_ ,” Illya echoes, acquiescing to Napoleon’s request by flipping them over and plunging back into the hot channel of his lover. He takes, and keeps taking, until Napoleon’s tightening up around him; it reminds him of a slow-moving wave as it builds from the faintest of ripples to clenching Illya’s cock in a vise-like grip that is Napoleon’s beautiful body. Illya swallows the cry of his lover’s climax, and the ones after it, as cum stripes his skin. He breaks their mouths apart to whisper in his mother tongue. Those words don’t stay quiet for long; they grow louder, more forceful with his thrusts until Illya bursts and empties himself with a throaty moan.

“Well done, Peril,” Napoleon says after a while. “It’s been nice working with you.”

He laughs, despite the exhaustion settling into his body and still being inside of Napoleon, who joins Illya in his amusement. One of them—he doesn’t remember which—finds a shirt to wipe themselves before Napoleon collapses on top of Illya or, perhaps, it’s the other way around. With the expectation of Napoleon to begin a new line of questioning on Illya’s life in the Northlands or why he seldom speaks the language because, if anything, Napoleon isn’t one to keep quiet for long, Illya braces himself. Instead, Napoleon slings his arm over Illya’s stomach with a sense of entitlement to Illya’s person that Illya has never experienced before.

Moments later, Napoleon’s soft snores fill the space between them. Lying awake, Illya thinks of Oleg and what he’d make of this. Would he find his protégé’s entanglement with this gift, this boy dangerous? Or amusing? Would he try to put a stop to it as Napoleon might distract Illya even more than he already has?

Or would Oleg allow Illya this bit of true happiness?

He falls asleep wondering these things and wakes to the chilling sensation of being watched. Thinking it to be Napoleon, Illya blinks as his bedroom ceiling and Adele’s cross expression to come into focus.

Then he realizes that _Adele is standing over him_ with her hands on her hips as she takes in the scene before her. “This doesn’t look restful to me,” she comments, ignoring how Illya nearly jumps out of his skin and wakes Napoleon in the process.

Grabbing the quilt to cover his and Napoleon’s nudity, Illya demands through gritted teeth, “Don’t you knock?”

“I believe the Baroness prescribed bed rest for you,” Adele mentions as she surveys the mess Illya and Napoleon have made of the sheets and blankets. “Covering up won’t do either of you any good. I’ve seen you both starkers and lived to tell the tale!” She picks up Napoleon’s trousers and wrinkles her nose as she flings it towards the hamper. “Besides, you two make enough noise for the entire baronage to hear.”

“Oh god,” Napoleon bemoans as he sinks under the quilt until only the tips of his dark hair is visible.

Illya holds his chin up high and clears his throat. “Do you have a message for me?” he asks.

“Yes,” Adele says while she darts around the room to pick up the wrinkled clothes littering the floor. “The Baron and Baroness would like you lovebirds to join them for dinner in the gardens this evening—unless you both are otherwise preoccupied.”

His glare does nothing to wipe the smirk from Adele’s face. “We’ll be there,” Illya tells her in clear dismissal; at least she understands that. He waits until he hears the front door shut before speaking again. “I have no doubts that by this evening, word of this will have spread to half of the baronage.”

“Why, Peril? Are you ashamed of being found in bed with me?” Napoleon asks as he pulls the blankets down. He tries to sound like he’s teasing, but Illya knows better.

Shaking his head, Illya leans in to run his knuckles over Napoleon’s collarbone. “No, never, Cowboy,” he says. He presses his lips to Napoleon’s skin. “I’m not fond of being the topic of servant gossip.”

“Ah,” Napoleon whispers in realization. “Has it been a habit of yours?”

“Hardly. I’ve been lucky enough to avoid it, save for when I arrived as a child.” Illya recalls the too-long stares and whispered observations that followed him everywhere he went. It made him as uncomfortable then as it does now just thinking about them. “Northlanders are few and far between in the Isles, especially a boy.”

Napoleon caresses his back. “How old were you?”

“Six,” Illya answers. He lifts his head to meet Napoleon’s eyes. “What about you?”

“Four, I think,” Napoleon says after a long while. He furrows his brows. “Like I said before…there’s hardly a time that I don’t remember being there.”

Illya tries to imagine Napoleon as a child, only coming back with an image of a boy with unruly dark hair and bright blue eyes. Had he been precocious or sullen like Illya was? Probably the latter, given what Illya knows about Napoleon and his personality; he envies him. “How did they find you all the way in the Vinlands?”

“To be honest, I’m not entirely sure and, mind you, I asked once I was old enough. The abbotts’ answers were as vague as you can imagine; I think I learned more about how a _Tenebrosi_ is chosen to bear the gift than how they found out about me.”

He nods. “And how’s that?”

“There’s no particular rhyme or reason—we just are,” Napoleon explains as he pushes Illya’s hair off his forehead. “I suppose it’s the luck of the draw…or a curse, depending on how you look at it. _But_ not all of our bodies can handle the gift. I remember several apprentices draining themselves ‘til they were dead or going mad. It takes a certain constitution…sort of like being a clipper.”

Hearing that some have lost their lives in one form or another causes Illya to shiver at the similarities of his own training. “Could that happen to me?” he asks.

Napoleon kisses his cheek, then his mouth. “I won’t allow it,” he whispers against his lips as his legs wrap around Illya’s waist with a lusty promise to forget, at least for a while.

 

* * *

 

Hints of jasmine and roses curl around the atmosphere as Illya makes his way to the garden, alone.

After finding his release with Napoleon and dozing for a time, he had sent the boy back to the main house so he could dress in peace. “You have a terrible habit of distracting me,” Illya told him—or rather, his throat. Which is completely true; concentrating while in Napoleon’s orbit has been next to impossible, and it wouldn’t be good form to be late to a dinner with the Baron and Baroness. “Besides,” he said against Napoleon’s skin, “there’s always later.”

It was later, now, and the sounds of laughter find their way to Illya’s ear before he spots the first servant, then the next. They bustle in and out of the garden, carrying trays of covered plates or, in the case of Adele, a carafe filled with wine. She stops in her tracks to appraise Illya’s appearance; the scrutiny makes him uncomfortable.

“Well?” he asks, holding his arms out for her inspection.

“I suppose you’ll do,” she says, gesturing for him to follow her. “Come on. They’re waiting on you.”

Rolling his eyes, Illya walks behind Adele. “I doubt they’re waiting on _just_ me. What about Napoleon?”

“He arrived nearly ten minutes before you did!” Adele tells him from over her shoulder.

Frowning, Illya says, “Well, I had to shave.” His frown deepens when he hears Adele’s snort of disbelief. “I will not go to my Baron and Baroness looking like a mangy dog!”

“Hm, your hair _could_ do with a trim,” Adele points out. “Perhaps Napoleon is talented with shears.”

He says nothing in hopes of not fanning the flames of servant gossip. What he told Napoleon wasn’t false—he’s loath to be in the center of wagging tongues, especially in matters concerning his private life. It’s one thing for there to be a discussion of his abilities as Baron Waverly’s Regent, but another to drag in other matters. Illya supposes he can’t avoid it forever and with Napoleon sharing his bed there will be talk of them. Besides, he’d be a fool to expect anything less when it concerns the unnaturally beautiful Napoleon Solo.

Illya turns the corner to find the rose garden illuminated by lanterns and an assortment of candles contained in glass jars. One might say the set-up is romantic, or meant to be, anyway—making him wonder if there are ulterior motives to tonight’s meal. With Waverly and Gaby sending Adele to Illya’s apartments to find Napoleon, it’s highly unlikely.

“Ah, you’ve found us!” Waverly says when he notices Illya coming in behind Adele and motions him over. Both Gaby and Napoleon break from their lively conversation to turn around in their seats. “You’re recovering well.”

Illya forces a grin. “Well enough for being on bedrest,” he replies.

Gaby scoffs at him before turning to Napoleon. “Illya doesn’t do well with sitting idle. It’s a trait he inherited from our former Regent, Oleg,” she explains.

“The infamous Oleg,” Napoleon comments.

“For his temper, if you ask me,” Adele mentions as she pours Illya a glass of wine, pointedly ignoring the scowl on his face. “Never met a man so prone to barking like a dog.”

Illya snatches his drink from her. “Only if someone crossed him,” he says, defending Oleg.

“Which happened quite often,” she reminds him before setting the carafe down and leaving them.

Amused, Waverly chuckles into his glass. “Oleg ran a tight ship, but he was regarded well by those who served under him,” he explains to Napoleon. “He and Illya are the best Regents this baronage has seen.”

“I don’t doubt that,” the boy says as his blue-eyed stare finds Illya and he grins, guileless and adoring. No one’s ever looked at him like this, at least not that Illya can remember. He envies Napoleon for his ability to move passed the traumas that brought him here while Illya still wears his like an invisible and indestructible shield.

Gaby stands up and goes to peck Illya’s cheek. “We’ve been very lucky to have the fiercest Northlanders among us,” she says.

“I am hardly the fiercest,” Illya mumbles, embarrassed. His cheeks feel like they’re burning.

“It’s not up for debate,” she tells him more softly. Gaby links their arms together and says, “Come. Let us dine!” She leans in to Illya, whispering, “And you can bring me up to speed about certain developments.” Then Gaby winks knowingly.

If he weren’t already blushing, Illya certainly would be now. He drains his glass of wine, feeling the warmth of it spread throughout his body. At this rate, he’ll be drunk before dessert. “You couldn’t wait until we’ve finished the appetizers?” Illya questions through his teeth.

“And miss you squirming? Of course not!” Gaby says entirely too pleasantly. She flashes him a smile as Illya pulls out her chair, waiting for her to sit. “Where’s the fun in that, Ilyusha?”

Groaning, Illya takes his seat between her and Napoleon. He has no right to complain seeing how it’s just a few hours with his employers—for lack of a better word—and the man he’s been sleeping with every night for nearly a week. That aside, Illya wants to tell them the meaning behind the tattoo on his arm and what it has revealed about himself. Hopefully they won’t discharge him, which he doesn’t see happening, but he’ll need to be trained in order to control it. Illya going back out without the proper precautions…it could kill him _and_ someone else if he isn’t careful.

“You’ve eaten very little,” Napoleon whispers during the main course. He nods at Illya pushing his fork around the plate without much thought. “Feeling alright, Peril?”

“I’m fine, Cowboy,” Illya says, no longer protesting the use of the silly nickname. He leans closer to whisper in Napoleon’s ear. “We should tell them…about what you told me.” He gestures to his forearm.

He presses his lips together as he glances at Gaby and Waverly, who are busy talking amongst themselves. “Do you think it wise?” Napoleon asks. “There could be repercussions.”

“More than what’s already happened?” Illya sets his fork down. “ _I_ need to tell them.”

“Tell us what?” Waverly says from across the table. It’s easy to notice their stricken expressions even as night darkens their surroundings, causing him to frown. “Illya?”

He surveys the garden, noticing the shadow of one of the household staff and shakes his head. “Not here,” he says quietly before adding in a louder voice, “Perhaps we could go inside for dessert?”

“Are you feeling a chill, Regent?” Waverly replies, playing along. “Come. We shall go to my study.” The shadow appears as he says those words; it’s a woman no older than Napoleon.

She’s a slight thing with a thin face and pert, bulbous-tipped nose. “Good evening, Baron. Baroness,” she says quietly. Noticing Illya and Napoleon, she bobs her head in greeting. “Regent Kuryakin. Is there something you need?”

“It seems that we’ll be having dessert in my study,” Waverly tells her as he helps his wife out of her seat.

The servant nods. “Yes, sir. I’ll have Adele bring it to you.”

“Thank you,” Waverly says before she rushes off into the night. Taking his wife’s dainty hand in his own, he turns to Illya and Napoleon with a question forming on his tongue; Illya can see it as plain as day. “Shall we?” Waverly asks.

Illya swallows. “Lead on.”

 

* * *

 

He stands by the door to ensure their privacy, with help of the old house and its quirks.

If a floorboard creaks under an eavesdropper’s foot, he’ll hear it before anyone else. The secret Illya is about to reveal is privileged knowledge that could rain hell upon the baronage, should the information fall into the wrong hands. He looks at Napoleon standing by the window, admiring how the moonlight illuminates his dark hair and thinks of what he endured. _Never again,_ Illya promises. _Not while I am still breathing._

“Illya,” Gaby says. “You look frightened.”

He clears his throat, nodding. “I am. What I’m about to tell you…it’s important that it doesn’t leave this room. Not until I have a better idea of what it is,” Illya says. “Do I have your word?”

The Baron and Baroness nod despite the confusion on their faces; it’s not much, but Illya can breathe a bit more easily and form the words he needs to say aloud.

“I’m a _Tenebrosi_ ,” he tells them. The confession leaves Illya feeling winded and tired, but relieved. So very relieved. “When I fell ill, it was because I used my gif—” He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. “I activated it for the first time and nearly drained myself as a result.” When Illya blinks, he’s met with the stunned expressions of Waverly and Gaby. There’s no rejection or malice in their features, just complete and utter confusion.

Waverly speaks first, stammering. “H-how?” he manages. “How did you not show signs of it? I’ve read it manifests in childhood…and your training as a colt would have…”

“That’s the biggest question,” Napoleon interjects. “Illya did at some point in order for him to receive the mark in the first place, but something—or someone, rather—stopped the gift from further developing.”

Gaby’s sharp inhale fills the silence. “Who would have that kind of power?”

“A witch, perhaps,” Illya says as he glances at Napoleon. “We aren’t exactly certain, but it could have been the real reason why my parents fled the Northlands.”

Waverly doesn’t seem surprised to hear the theory. “The Baron found out and sought to turn you into a weapon,” he surmises, grimly. “It makes sense.”

“It might, but it doesn’t mean that the Baron didn’t seek to punish his parents for having Illya,” Gaby hisses. She goes to the drinks trolley and pours herself a whiskey. “Either way, he ended up on our shores and with a murky past, to boot!”

Anger flares in his hands; they would have trembled if it weren’t for Illya balling them into fists. “I was, but a child, Baroness. The choices of my parents’ were not my own,” he snarls.

“Oh Illya,” Gaby sighs once she realizes how horrible her statement sounds. “Apologies; I hadn’t meant for it to come out like that.”

His glare doesn’t recede. “But it did.”

“Perhaps a change of subject,” Napoleon suggests.

“We’ll need a course of action,” Waverly announces. He sits on the leather couch and throws his arm over the back of it.

Illya swallows. “Do you want me to resign?”

“Of course not!” Waverly exclaims, horrified at the suggestion. “I want you to remain in your posting for as long as you are able or willing, but we _must_ take precautions so not to jeopardize your health or the people who live within my baronage.” He looks at Illya more softly this time—like a father would. “Illya, dear boy, why would you think that I’d cast you out?”

He shrugs rather than reveal his nerves unto the entire room and their scrutiny. “Not all Barons are as kind as you are,” Illya states.

“You are _family_ ,” Waverly insists, almost vehemently as a quiet fury tightens his face. For a man that’s usually calm and collected, seeing him like this leaves Illya unnerved. “Illya, from the moment I found you wandering in the moors, you were as good as my own flesh and blood. If I have given you cause to doubt this, I extend my humblest apologies.”

Alarmed, Illya shakes his head. “No. Never!” he exclaims. “If the Vinciguerras and their allies found out that your baronage was housing not one, but _two Tenebrosi_ , it would rain hell upon all who live here. My actions have put everyone in danger…”

“Illya,” Waverly says, calmly. He touches Illya’s bicep, patting it as he continues, “You have always been an exemplary Regent. If anything, your actions have kept this baronage and those that reside here safe.” Waverly smiles kindly. “However, there is a matter of what needs to be done for you to have better control over your abilities. They’re what caused you to fall ill, are they not?”

Gaby makes a victorious sound. “I knew it!” she cries as she leaps to her feet and slaps Illya’s arm. “I knew it wasn’t a virus! It came on too suddenly and viciously. Illya, you _arschloch_! You ought to be more careful.”

“Had I known…” he mumbles as he rubs the sting from his arm.

Rolling her eyes, she turns to her husband. “Well, what do you propose we do?” Gaby asks. “We can’t keep Illya from being Regent; it would be far too suspicious. And sending him away is _absolutely_ out of the question!”

“I agree,” Waverly says as Napoleon clears his throat. “Yes, Napoleon?”

“I could teach him,” he offers, confidently and with his eyes glittering. It’s entrancing to watch—a man younger than Illya, himself—hold his own in a discussion with a Baron while many would stammer. “I would have become an abbott in the summer had it not been for the Vinciguerra clippers.”

To hear about Napoleon’s plans prior to being kidnapped is strange and heartbreaking in a way that Illya can’t describe. He thinks the boy must have grieved everything he lost if he isn’t still, but has decided to make the best of it. Illya isn’t exactly sorry for having Napoleon in his life or bed, though he would have preferred the circumstances to be different.

Waverly, Gaby, and Illya share a glance. “What will you need?” the Baron asks.

“Privacy, for one. Until Illya can control himself, no one can be around us while I train him. He won’t be able to distinguish friend from foe.”

“You may use the field behind the old house ruins,” Waverly says. “Illya knows where they are.”

Napoleon turns to him, grinning when Illya nods. “What about using the sparring equipment?”

“Of course we can use the sparring equipment!” Illya snaps, mildly insulted. He scowls at the growing smile on Napoleon’s face. “What kind of Regent do you take me for, Cowboy?” He ignores Gaby’s snickers and Waverly concealing a grin behind his hand.

The boy feigns innocence. “You can never be too sure, Peril!” he says with extra sweetness to his voice. “It’s better to be safe than sorry later on, don’t you agree?”

“I need a drink,” Illya concedes and holds out his hand for a glass.

 

* * *

 

“Don’t miss me too much,” Napoleon teases as he walks with Illya to the stairwell that leads straight to his front door.

Illya scoffs, softly, at the comment since Napoleon will return to his room in the house rather than Illya’s apartment. “Miss your constant talking? Never!” He thinks he’ll enjoy a full night’s sleep without having to share his bed. True, waking up will be considerably less pleasurable, but it’s a risk Illya’s willing to take.

Clutching his fist over his heart, Napoleon says, “You wound me, Peril! Does the time we share together mean nothing to you?”

Though it’s said in jest, Illya detects a bit of hurt in Napoleon’s voice. For all of his youthful bravado, the boy has feelings like anyone else and rejection can be painful. He stops walking to grab Napoleon by the waist and pull him close. “You know it does, Cowboy,” Illya tells him as he stares his lover down in the dimly lit stairwell while the house creaks around them.

The sound of Napoleon gulping punctuates the silence. “I do?”

With a smirk growing, Illya nods and leans closer. His nuzzles Napoleon’s jaw with the tip of his nose, whispering, “Clearly I haven’t made my intentions more obvious.”

“Clearly,” Napoleon whispers back. He’s zeroed in on Illya’s mouth and not much else.

A heartbeat later, Illya has captured Napoleon’s lips with his own, softly nipping at the warm flesh and soothing it with his tongue. He licks his way into Napoleon’s mouth, teasing him open as if they were in bed with Napoleon splayed over his sheets. Illya reaches, cupping the back of the boy’s head where he buries his fingers in tousled waves. He swallows every sound Napoleon makes, taking them into himself to remember on cold, long nights.

How long they stand in the stairwell Illya cannot say, but when they regretfully break apart, they’re breathing hard and still clutching each other. Napoleon worries his thumb over Illya’s sleeve, stroking his bicep through the fabric as he grins up at him.

“So this is goodnight, then?” he asks.

Illya sighs. “This is.” He gives Napoleon a chaste peck on the lips. “Sleep well, Cowboy.”

“Goodnight, Peril,” Napoleon says.

When he lets Illya go, Napoleon’s warmth goes with him. Illya watches his retreat before calling out, “If you change your mind…”

Napoleon must know from Tilda, who’s never been able to keep her mouth shut, that Illya has a cool, if a bit aloof demeanor. His affections are reserved for the small cluster of people who he considers friends and the cogs’ children that run up to his vehicle, chattering excitedly about seeing Baron Waverly’s Regent.

Not even the poor lighting hides the bewilderment, then the crooked grin on Napoleon’s face. Tilting his head and wetting his lips, it’s clear that his interest is piqued by Illya’s offer. “And what if I changed my mind now?”

“You know where I live,” Illya replies before turning on his heel and leaving. He makes it halfway to his front door when he hears Napoleon’s footsteps coming up behind him. He smirks at Napoleon’s predictability and admires it as well. Illya pauses to wait for Napoleon to catch up to him. “Miss me already?” he asks as he faces his lover.

Napoleon answers by pushing Illya to the wall and kissing him so filthily that Illya can only moan and open his mouth for him. The sharpness of teeth biting down on his bottom lip causes Illya to buck his hips and bite his lover back. Pulling on strands of silky, dark hair, Illya plunges his tongue into battle with Napoleon’s, into familiar territory, into the sensation of their hard cocks rutting against each other through their trousers.

Even in the cool night air sweat manages to dampen their skin, and it’s not like Illya cares; he’s forgotten that anyone could come upon them. All he wants is the feeling of Napoleon’s body pressed into his own so he can taste every inch of him. He wants everything Napoleon has to offer and wants to give himself over in return. It’s nothing Illya’s ever felt before and, rather than being frightened, he just _wants_. He wants so badly, so completely that Illya knows nothing else at this moment.

“Not like this,” Napoleon murmurs against Illya’s mouth. He breaks the kissing, breathing hard. “Not like this.”

“How then?” Illya asks.

Fingers dip below the waistband of his trousers, between his arse cheeks until they press against Illya’s hole. It floods his entire body with warmth and desire as he arches into the touch. “Will you let me fuck you, Illya?” Napoleon says, sounding as wrecked as Illya feels.

Illya trembles as Napoleon rubs the puckered skin of his entrance; slowly, slowly as he sets the sensitive area alight with his touch. Napoleon’s fingers are calloused like his own—the fingers of men who have trained extensively—not the smoothness of the dolls in Baron Rojas’ taverns. He and Napoleon are jagged edges fitted together, unashamed.

“Can I fuck you?” Napoleon asks again as he nuzzles Illya’s throat. His voice is barely above a whisper. “Will you let me?” He presses his fingers down and chuckles at Illya’s whine. “Peril…”

From the moment Napoleon kissed him near his front door, and even before then, Illya knew there was only one right answer. “Yes,” he moans against Napoleon’s cheek. “ _Yes_.”

Despite evidence to the contrary, Napoleon takes his time undressing and subsequently opening Illya up for him. He kneels between Illya’s legs, naked and illuminated by the moonlight, as he patiently stretches Illya’s hole. Illya’s forgotten what this part is like—the breathtaking burn and pressure of being filled, the spot that makes him go rigid when Napoleon strokes _just like that_ , the ache of wanting so badly that he may burst.

Then Napoleon takes him, thrusting into Illya with a single _perfect_ , fluid stroke. Illya cries out as he fists the sheets, trying desperately not to tear them or cum too soon. He thrashes on the bed, on Napoleon, who’s buried to the hilt, balls brushing against Illya’s taint and prickles his overly sensitive skin with pubic hair. He looks so beautiful as he leans over Illya—eyes glassy and bright, lips bitten red and swollen from kisses, shoulders slick with sweat—waiting patiently for Illya to signal that he’s ready for Napoleon to move.

“Hey,” Napoleon intones while his hand rubs Illya’s flank, keeping Illya anchored to reality. The caress is soft, comforting, inviting especially with the impish smile on Napoleon’s face.

Illya swallows the scream in his throat. “What are you doing down there?” he says, trying to sound calm, controlled even.

“Trying not to get lost.” Napoleon tilts his head, his smile fading slightly. “Are you alright, Peril?”

“I think so,” Illya whispers; it comes out as a confession. He closes his eyes for a moment and breathes, allowing his body to relax, to take Napoleon into himself because _he wants this so badly_. When he opens them, Napoleon is still above him, touching him, inside him and so very beautiful. “You can move now, Cowboy.”

There’s no quip or sarcasm—only Napoleon’s smile as he lowers his mouth to Illya’s. The heat, the desire between them, pours into Illya, searing him through. If this is what losing his sanity is like, he’s more than willing to give into it.

Illya feels like he’s melting as Napoleon begins to move, gently at first. His hands slide up Napoleon’s arms, touching the soft skin under his fingertips as if there’s an invisible path for Illya to find. He finds his lover’s shoulders, latching onto them as Napoleon thrusts just a bit faster, a bit harder, a bit deeper. Napoleon takes Illya’s legs, spreading them wider and pushing them towards Illya’s chest. He leans in, sinking as Illya pulls him close enough to kiss him.

Illya all but devours his mouth, plunging his tongue between Napoleon’s lips to taste him. He finds the passion he thought he lacked, the emotion hidden under childhood memories and a self-imposed shield to protect himself. Napoleon has cracked Illya’s armor, piece by piece, in a matter of days.

No, weeks. Ever since he cradled his body in his jacket and carried him back to the mansion.

Blindly, Illya reaches for him, rocking his hips against Napoleon to meet him with the same fervor as his lover. Moving and surging and melting—it’s all unreserved and demanding. “Harder,” he whispers into Napoleon’s ear. “ _Sil’neye_.”

Napoleon groans and obliges him. He drives his cock into Illya, fucking the oxygen out of his lungs as his cock finds his prostate. Napoleon chuckles and nips Illya’s collarbone. “Like that, Peril?”

“Yes,” Illya moans, throwing his head back and gasping. “Yes, god yes!” The next thrust makes him wail; he doesn’t care if the entire baronage hears him. _Let them talk_ , he thinks, deliriously.

“Peril,” Napoleon gasps. He pumps into Illya faster and harder, just as undone as Illya; maybe more so. “Fuck!”

Illya whimpers as stars appear in his vision and lightning strikes his entire being. Clutching onto Napoleon’s shoulders, Illya tries to remember to breathe as his orgasm builds in his groin. The slow burn of it spreads throughout his body, setting fire to every nerve and sense and, fuck, Illya can’t think anymore. “Napoleon,” he manages to say. He can’t warn him that he’s close—the words have been ripped from his mouth, leaving him exposed.

“I know,” Napoleon grunts. The ends of his hair are damp with sweat, curling more profusely than before. He’s bewitching, Illya decides, and even more so when he smiles. He takes Illya’s cock in hand, stroking it in time with his thrusts. “I have you.”

Something about that whispered promise brings Illya’s climax. The crash of it leaves him helpless, shuddering as he cums. His release commingles with his sweat and the salt on Napoleon’s fist, the thought of which makes Illya moan.

Opening his eyes, he finds the image of Napoleon licking his fingers, ridding them of Illya’s cum with a devious grin. The bastard even winks. “As I’ve mentioned before,” his lover says when he’s finished, albeit sounding a bit strangled, “you taste amazing, Peril.”

Illya makes an inarticulate noise, uncertain if it’s because of Napoleon’s comment or that he’s still chasing his own orgasm and glancing off of Illya’s prostate with every thrust. “Pompous imp,” he hisses, half-heartedly.

“True,” Napoleon gasps into Illya’s shoulder. He’s moving more erratically now, grunting from exertion in the same way Illya’s heard himself do when he’s close. Illya feels Napoleon’s body trembling in an attempt to keep himself from falling apart. “Illya,” Napoleon groans.

“I have you,” Illya says, echoing his lover’s earlier sentiment. Warmth floods his passage as Napoleon spills deep, coating and branding Illya as his, like Illya had done the first time they slept together. Stroking the tense muscles of Napoleon’s back, he murmurs encouragement into his lover’s skin, quiet compared to the wonderful symphony spilling from Napoleon’s equally wonderful mouth.

Napoleon collapses on top of him and pillows his cheek against Illya’s chest, breathing hard. The smallest whimpers punctuate the silence as the boy comes down. Illya keeps touching him—burying his fingers in his hair, rubbing his thumb over the knobs of Napoleon’s spine, kissing his temple—to guide Napoleon back to the present. When he senses the boy’s lucidity funneling back, Illya tilts head with a grin; even with Napoleon being inside him, Illya still manages to ravage him. “Are you alright, Cowboy?” he asks.

“I’m having a religious experience,” Napoleon mumbles. In other words, he’s probably not moving on his own accord any time soon.

Illya rolls them over on their sides, wincing at the loss of Napoleon inside of him. He’s going to be sore tomorrow, that’s for certain. Nuzzling Napoleon’s neck, he kisses the sheen of sweat on his skin. “I’m going to wash off,” he says.

“Must you?”

He nods. “I don’t fancy waking up with my thighs sticking together,” Illya tells him as he scoots across the mattress and sits on the edge to stretch. There’s a pleasant burn in his groin.

“Point,” Napoleon agrees, tiredly. “Don’t be offended if I’m sleeping when you return.”

“I shall be thankful since I’ll be getting a full night’s sleep,” Illya teases.

Napoleon scoffs as he nudges him with his foot. “Go, you fool!” He turns away, naked and glorious in Illya’s bed.

“Come with me,” Illya beckons. “We’ll be back here in five minutes.”

His lover harrumphs. “I know what _your_ five minutes are, Mr. Kuryakin,” Napoleon deadpans as he faces him. He rolls his eyes at Illya’s grin and moves. “ _Fine._ I’ll go!”

It takes longer than five minutes. Neither is surprised.

 

* * *

 

The suffocating heaviness of smoke rouses him from pleasant dreams.

It lingers in the air, mingling with the sickeningly sweet fragrance from the flowers in the gardens and wafting knowingly as it seeps through the opened window of Illya’s apartment. He’s half-awake, but mostly asleep and yearning to join Napoleon, who lies next to him, unaware. The smoke seems like a dream, so he rolls over to meet his lover’s back with his chest and inhales.

His eyes snap open in panic. Illya sits up, ignoring the cool air hitting his bare skin as the sheets fall to his waist. “Cowboy,” he whispers, reaching for Napoleon to shake him. “Cowboy!” he hisses, not trusting his own voice.

Napoleon groans. “A few more minutes.”

“No, Cowboy. Wake up!” Illya demands with another rough shake. Napoleon’s eyes open as he sniffs the air. “Do you smell that?” he asks.

The boy nods. “Smoke.”

Together they dress in the dark, rushing through the motions and leaving shirts untucked, socks on the floor for the sake of time. Neither speaks until Illya has finished buckling his holsters and fiddles with his vambraces while Napoleon’s tying his bootstraps.

“Do you know how to use a gun?” Illya asks him.

Napoleon nods.

“And a sword or dagger?”

Napoleon nods again.

“Good,” Illya says, motioning Napoleon to follow him. “Come with me.”

The smoke is thicker in the living room, causing both men to cough as they make their way to the closet where Illya stores his weapons. Gagging on ash, Illya hands Napoleon a pistol and a box of bullets, then a dagger before taking more of the same for himself. As he sheaths his guns in the holster a burst of flame envelopes the front door in orange, gold, and red.

“This way,” Illya shouts as black smoke billows into the room, filling every corner until he and Napoleon are coughing and gagging on it. He grabs Napoleon by the arm, pulling him towards a temporary refuge. Once in the kitchen, Illya rushes to the window and shatters it with the butt of his gun, breaking each pane until a grown man can fit through the opening.

Shoving Napoleon in front of him, he yells, “Jump! Quickly!”

There’s no time for a kiss or even a breath; Napoleon becomes swallowed by the night as he disappears through the broken window and into the fresh air.

Illya follows him shortly after.


	6. Chapter 6

He lands.

Of course he does since there is solid ground outside his kitchen window; it would be impossible for Illya not to and disappear into a void. His landing is nearly soundless, if only for the grunt that escapes through his lips as he hits the flowers and grass with his body. As Illya blinks, he thinks of how irritated Charles the head gardener will be when he finds out who’s responsible for ruining his immaculate landscaping.

“Peril,” Napoleon says as his face appears above his own, half-hidden by the moonlight. If only the silver light were able to hide the worry in Napoleon’s eyes and the ash smudged on his cheeks. “Are you alright?”

Then Illya remembers.

The smoke. _The fire._ The destruction of it as it swallowed up Illya’s home.

“I’m fine, Cowboy,” Illya assures, watching as Napoleon breathes a sigh of relief and moves away to give him room to stand. Brushing bits of grass from his trousers, he looks Napoleon over and tries not to think much about the smell of smoke clinging to them both. “And you?”

His lover doesn’t even try to hide his fear with a careless shrug or teasing smirk. Illya thinks he looks very young like this, too young to have endured the things he already has in his short life. “Could be better, could be worse,” Napoleon answers, hoarsely.

Then Napoleon’s face goes pale as his mouth falls open in silent exclamation and his eyes widen. Turning around, Illya follows Napoleon’s gaze and steps back in horror.

Behind them, the mansion burns—burns so brightly as it licks the night sky with its orange flame while illuminating the path of smoke as it curls into the atmosphere, like a lover’s touch. The fire winds itself around everything in its path, blazing wildly as a plume of ash floats to the ground in a macabre dance of dirty flake of snow. The inferno continues to roar mournfully against this hellish landscape, but no other sounds seem to accompany it.

 _There are no other sounds,_ Illya muses in half-wonderment, half-horror before his senses catch up. “No,” he whispers in horrible realization, already breaking into a run towards the mansion. “No!”

“Illya!” Napoleon shouts from behind him.

He isn’t ashamed to admit to forgetting about Napoleon’s existence entirely in those terrible moments. Illya can only think about is the destruction of a place he’s called home since he was only a boy; all of it wiped away by flame and reduced to ashes. He can scarcely breathe.

Illya comes around the front of the mansion, gasping at the chaos he finds. If he thought the blaze was worse from his original vantage point, it doesn’t even compare to what he sees now. Flames of deep red and amber, almost purple, lick up into the air with the breeze as if trying to catch onto something else. The attempt is for nothing as embers disappear into the night, disappointed and hungry. None of the things inside the house—the furniture, the artwork, _everything_ —will survive this and, come morning, they’ll be charred remains in a once thriving home.

The shriek of glass exploding from blaze’s heat pierces the air and rains down on him, marking his skin in an array of small nicks, to a gash that lies dangerously close to his eye because Illya reacts too late. He barely feels the pain anyhow, only the stirrings of his untamed gift turning his blood molten. Unlike the first provocation, this instance begins with trembling in his fingertips and rapidly expands to his fists, then arms. Illya gnashes his teeth together—enough to ache, enough to make him growl—as he stands rooted in place as his gift threatens to darken his vision and burn through him.

 _Victoria Vinciguerra,_ he rages as the gift continues its conquering of his body. _You’re responsible for this night. I will end you with my own bare hands!_

A sharp pain radiates from his biceps. “Illya,” Napoleon calls, his voice deeper and more fearsome than Illya remembers. “I command you to yield.”

“They did this,” he snarls, the words bitter on his tongue. He tries to lunge forward, but cannot. “They will pay!”

“I command you to yield,” Napoleon orders again.

His tone—the vastness of its timbre—clears some of the darkness from Illya’s vision. As it lifts, he makes out some of his lover’s features through the murky haze. “I don’t want to,” Illya confesses angrily. The desire to destroy returns and immerses him again.

“I command you to yield, _Tenebrosi_ ,” Napoleon roars.

Like a wild animal.

Like the fire.

Roars so loudly that the gift’s hold releases Illya from its bonds. His mind and vision clear quickly, leaving him dizzy. Sucking in oxygen like a drowning man, Illya fights to fill his lungs as he sags forward in Napoleon’s grip, wheezing and gasping. If it weren’t for Napoleon, Illya thinks he would certainly be lying on the ground.

“Keep breathing, Peril,” Napoleon gently commands. He rubs slow circles between Illya’s shoulders as if they were lying sweaty and naked in bed. “Just breathe.”

He listens to Napoleon’s voice as it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to reality. Illya sucks in a deep breath, counting in his head until it’s time to release it like Oleg taught him when he was young. When his anger was more palpable during his colt years, not out of control like it is now.

“That’s good, Peril,” Napoleon says after a few moments. “Real good. Do you think you can walk?”

Illya sucks in another breath. “Why?”

“We need to leave,” the other man tells him as he takes Illya by the hand and pulls him to his feet.

Dizziness causes Illya to sway for a moment before it quickly dissipates. “Leave?” he questions, his mind slowly catching up to Napoleon’s statement. Anger—not as red and fiery like before, but still anger all the same—flares in his gut. “We _can’t_ leave,” Illya hisses. “We have to help them!”

“Help who, Illya?” Napoleon snaps. He gestures towards the burning mansion, where Napoleon might have perished had he not been spending the night in Illya’s bed. Thinking about it makes Illya sick. “There’s nothing we can do for them!”

But not as sick as hearing Napoleon say those words. “There could be survivors!” he retorts, his voice rising. He watches Napoleon shake his head. “There _could_ be!”

“There isn’t! Don’t you see that this was an attack?” Napoleon asks. “Someone wanted us dead and the people—” He points to the mansion just as the front pillars give out and collapse, taking much of the facade with it. They both jump. “—responsible didn’t care who else might be killed!”

Bile rises in Illya’s throat. “All the more reason…”

“Jesus, Illya!” Napoleon shouts in frustration. “We need to leave this place! Go somewhere safe.”

“I am the Regent,” Illya shouts back, cowering over Napoleon as he glares. “It’s my duty to oversee rescue and recovery efforts before we launch a counter-attack on Baron Vinciguerra.”

Napoleon stares at him, his lips parted in disbelief. “You don’t understand, do you?”

“I think it’s _you_ who doesn’t,” he replies as he pokes Napoleon in his chest. “I have my duties, Cowboy.”

“You also have a target on your back!” Napoleon says, shrilly. He grabs Illya by the wrist, tugging him closer. “If you want to give the people of this baronage a fighting chance to survive, we need to leave right now!”

He swallows. “No,” Illya says, shaking his head. “It’s the coward’s way.”

“Peril, it’s the _only_ way.”

The sentence stings. “Napoleon…” Illya begins to argue, but words fail him. Closing his eyes, he thinks of the people who live within Waverly’s baronage and what Baron Vinciguerra might do to them just to get to Napoleon and himself.

And what Sanders might do. What they’ve already done and Illya _knows_ it’s them who are responsible for the inferno engulfing this once beautiful safe haven. A place with people who took in an orphaned boy and gave him a new home, a new family.

Thinking about it brings tears to his eyes. “It’s my home,” Illya manages to whisper, defeated.

“I know, Illya,” Napoleon says, softly. His hand cups the nape of Illya’s neck. “I know.”

“I can’t,” he croaks. “I can’t leave it…”

Napoleon pulls him closer until their sweaty, ash-covered foreheads touch. Despite the warmth of his lover’s skin, it feels like a balm to cool Illya’s despair, even temporarily. “I promise you we’ll come back,” he says. “I swear it. Even with an army if we have to!”

He closes his eyes, releasing two swollen tears down his cheeks.

“Illya,” Napoleon whispers. “Illya, please.”

Even as heartsick as Illya is, he knows Napoleon’s right at the end. They can’t stay here; it’s far too dangerous for them, and _everyone_ for that matter. He breaks away from Napoleon and wipes his face, smearing ash everywhere. “We can take one of the cars and drive to the Channel,” he suggests.

Doubt wrinkles Napoleon’s brows. “And where will we go?” Napoleon asks. “To the mainland?”

“Oleg has a brother that lives in Caerdicca Unitas, near the coast—Boris, I think.”

Napoleon purses his lips. “Will he help us?”

Illya shrugs. “I’m not certain. If he knows who I am, perhaps…if he’s able.”

“It’s better than nothing, I suppose,” Napoleon says after several long minutes. “But it’s a chance we’ll have to take and quickly, before the others come.” He must see how Illya’s looking at him—with all of the confusion in the world resting on his face—as pity softens his expression. “No one can know we survived the fire, Peril. It’s too dangerous.”

Hearing this pushes the air from Illya’s lungs. “But…”

“Illya,” Napoleon pleads. He knows how painful the situation is—he must, having been through it himself—and seems to understand Illya’s hesitation. “We have to go.”

Squaring his shoulders, Illya forces himself to nod. “Follow me,” he says.

Together, they disappear into the darkness.

 

* * *

 

They arrive at the white cliffs overlooking the Channel by dawn.

Even with the low hanging mist obscuring most of it from view, the cliffs look as they did nineteen years ago when Illya arrived by a rickety boat. He had been alone and terrified then, rendered mute by the trials he endured to wash up along the shore. Illya feels like he’s stepping back in time as the battered vehicle comes to a stop and the engine sputters before going silent. He sits, dazed, in the passenger seat while Napoleon shifts the gears into park.

“It seems bigger than I remember,” Napoleon muses aloud as he unbuckles his seat belt. It’s the first words either of them have spoken since fleeing the baronage.

The longest they’ve gone without talking since becoming acquainted. Illya doesn’t particularly enjoy it, but he can’t bring himself to speak. At least, not yet. By some miracle, Napoleon doesn’t take offense to Illya’s silence and takes the lead while Illya processes the events during the last six hours.

Napoleon leans against the steering wheel, contemplating their limited options. Without rations, proper clothing, and very little money, they’re by all intents and purposes _fucked_. “Look down that way,” he says, pointing towards a cluster of lights in the distance. “I bet you that’s a trading post. We can sell this thing—” He raps his knuckles about the dashboard “—and buy passage to the mainland.”

Illya flinches at the suggestion, though he realizes they have no other choice. Not unless they want to go back to the baronage and endanger everyone there. As much as he wants to return, he knows it’s impossible.

“Perhaps some new clothes,” Napoleon continues. When Illya turns, he finds Napoleon staring back with an unreadable expression. “You have to admit between the ash stains and your vambraces, we aren’t the most inconspicuous travelers.” He reaches across the front seat to grasp Illya’s shoulder. “Okay?”

Swallowing, he forces himself to nod in reply. His salvia uncomfortably sticks to the sides of his parched throat; they should probably pick up some rations, but doesn’t say so.

“Okay,” Napoleon says softly. His touch disappears, leaving Illya feeling a bit colder without as he pushes the keys back into the ignition and starts the engine.

During the trek down the trading outpost, Illya wonders where Napoleon learned to drive. Had it been under the tutelage of someone at the monastery or did Tilda decide to take matters into her own hands while Illya was indisposed. He’s grateful either way since he’s in no condition to be behind the wheel.

He lets Napoleon do all of the talking once they arrive at the outpost. The car fetches for decent coin—enough for them to purchase supplies, passage on a ferry leaving an hour from now, and clothes better suited for the mainland’s colder climate, with plenty left over for the rest of their journey. Napoleon arranges for them to use the public showers to rid themselves of grime before they leave.

The water might turn his skin pink, but it’s not the same as showering in his own apartments, a luxury Illya will probably never have again. He spent longer living in the baronage than the Northlands, but one thing remains the same—everything he’s known has been destroyed.

Going to Boris might a fool’s errand, but it’s the only plan he and Napoleon have.

Illya tries to remember that as they board the ferry and watch the Isles vanish under a blanket of fog.

 

* * *

 

Their travel to the Caerdicca Unitas passes without incident or noteworthy events.

Each stop along the way blends into the next. From the region which the _Ancien Régime_ used to call France to the towns with hardly enough people to have a name, they stay no longer than a day before continuing onward to the next destination. If the circumstances were different, they might be able to pretend they were on a lovers’ jaunt across the mainland, but it is not so. He sees lush greenery give way to snow-capped mountains and, finally, a glittering coast that’s so beautiful that it makes Illya want to tell Gaby, but then he remembers.

He hates remembering.

At least the blur of their journey allows him respites from dwelling on that night, though Illya’s certain they’ll pay for the haste in their journey with their health later. He doesn’t have to think about what transpired for them to be so far from the Isles, and by the time he falls into yet another unfamiliar bed alongside Napoleon, he’s too tired to do anything but sleep. Come morning they wake to do it all over again, and come closer to their destination by the day. They barely speak to each other—since that night, Illya sourly notes—and when they do, it’s a few words at best. It’s strange not to have a constant stream of bickering between them, though Illya hardly can do anything about it now.

For now, he focuses on the task at hand—finding Boris and pleading to him for help; everything else can wait.

“Do you know whereabouts this Boris character lives?” Napoleon asks him one afternoon as they trapeze along the Caerdicca Unitas coast.

Illya doesn’t look at him. “Boris Antonov,” he says, quietly. “I reckon he’d be residing in the _Severnoye Mesto_ , the Northlander quarter of the city. Northlanders tend to stick to their own.”

“The same cannot be said for you, Peril,” the other man replies.

He shrugs. “I was too young to form a camaraderie with the ones who murdered my parents.”

“Hey, look at me,” Napoleon says as he touches Illya’s arm, stopping him from walking further.

With a defeated sigh, Illya turns to him so that they stare at one another and notices the weariness that’s settled not only into his own body, but Napoleon’s as well. Purple bruises cling to the undersides of his lover’s eyes while scattered cuts continue to scab or have disappeared altogether. The other contusions are hidden under his clothes, but Illya’s seen them when they stop for the night. Naked, Napoleon appears gaunt, for lack of a better word. Even still, Napoleon remains the most beautiful man Illya’s ever seen.

Napoleon wets his lips before speaking; like Illya’s, they’ve become chapped from the fluctuation in climate. “I want you to talk to me,” he pleads. There is desperation in his eyes, in his voice, _in his touch_ —Napoleon’s teeming with it. “Talk to me, Peril. _Please_.”

A lump begins building in his throat, pulsing through him until it reaches his fists. He balls them up until his fingernails cut into his palms as he thinks, _What is there to say? Everything I’ve known is gone._ “We need to find Boris,” he says tonelessly. Illya goes to move, but Napoleon’s hand on his chest stops him. He glares at him. “Let me pass.”

“Not until you talk to me.”

Illya presses against Napoleon’s hand, towering over him menacingly. “I am not a cog or one of your novices at the monastery to order around,” he growls angrily. Illya itches to rip something apart. “And I don’t need to share my innermost thoughts with anyone, _especially_ you!”

Napoleon moves away, looking like he’s been slapped. “Holding it in won’t make you feel better, Illya,” he says as Illya turns from him.

“I never said it would,” Illya snaps over his shoulder.

“And it won’t bring them back,” Napoleon adds.

Letting go of his rucksack, Illya turns around and screams, “I know that!” The sound of his voice is like a slap in the face for both of them. It echoes, weaving itself through their surroundings before fading away. Breathing hard, Illya begins trembling throughout his body. “But if I talk about it…or I acknowledge what happened, I won’t be able to keep myself from falling apart! I’ll be _useless_ , Cowboy!”

His greatest fear is to become useless—unworthy of being the Regent, the heir to Oleg’s legacy, of the life his parents sought for him at the cost of their own—and his confession leaves him overwhelmed by guilt and rage. Illya pries his eyes away from Napoleon’s, shielding his unshed tears from view. He’s already shown Napoleon more weakness than he’s comfortable with, and anymore…Illya doesn’t think he can handle it.

“Illya,” Napoleon intones. There’s pity in his voice, curling over Illya’s name like a sorrowful song.

He can barely stand hearing it or the sound of Napoleon’s boots crunching on the dirt and rocks of the trail. Illya flinches when it stops, knowing that his lover stands behind him—close enough to touch, close enough to see.

“Illya,” Napoleon says again; softer this time. He lays a hand on Illya’s shoulder and slowly turns him until they are facing one another. Napoleon takes both of Illya’s shaking fists in his palms, gently caressing each knuckle as they stand in the middle of nowhere.

He squeezes his fists tighter as his eyes water and spill over. “I let them die,” he whimpers. “I allowed the Vinciguerra clippers to attack us…”

“You had _no idea_ what Baron Vinciguerra was planning,” Napoleon tells him. He lets go of Illya’s fists to brush his thumbs over Illya’s cheeks, wiping away his freshly fallen tears. “Illya,” he says, curling a hand over the back of Illya’s neck and tugging him forward. Their foreheads touch. “None of this is your fault.”

Illya swallows back a sob. “It’s all my fault,” he chokes.

“No, Peril, no,” Napoleon insists, whispering despite them being the only people there. He rubs Illya’s neck, gently tracing invisible circles on his skin. “Listen to me; you didn’t do anything to cause this. You are just as innocent as Baron and Baroness Waverly, the abbots and apprentices at the monastery, whoever else perished because of the actions of horrible people… _myself_ …none of this was our doing, Illya.”

Silent tears pour out of him as he stands, though barely, on a quiet trail in a strange land with Napoleon trying to comfort him. Illya never imagined this when he met Napoleon—he assumed he would be the constant protector as he had always been and Napoleon as his charge, then later, lover. Their roles have flipped; it’s amusing in an ironic sort of way.

“We’ll find Boris Antonov and gather as many resources as we can before returning to the Isles. To Baron Waverly’s land.” Napoleon looks into Illya’s own eyes like he’s piercing through his very soul. “Together we’ll slaughter the ones who did this. I promise you, Illya,” he says. “With my dying breath.”

Swallowing, Illya says the only thing that comes to mind. “I hope it doesn’t come to that.”

It’s terribly ineloquent, perhaps too glib for a moment saturated in such intensity, but it’s worth hearing the unrestrained laughter from Napoleon’s throat. He joins him, chuckling softly while thinking that it’s been days since he’s seen a smile grace his lover’s face. Selfishly, Illya’s glad he’s the one who put it there.

“Well,” Napoleon says after a while. His eyes appear brighter under the afternoon sun and from their shared amusement. “That took an unexpected turn.” He tilts his head as he studies Illya. “Perhaps we should find the next town and stop for the night.”

The suggestion sounds appealing, but he knows better. With regret, Illya shakes his head. “We’re nearly to Genoa,” he points out. “I suspect a few more hours at most; we can make it by sundown if we leave now.”

“In a rush, are you?”

“No more than you,” Illya replies. He watches Napoleon bend down to pick up his rucksack before giving it back to him. Illya settles it on his shoulder. “Let’s go while we still have daylight.”

 

* * *

 

The port city is a study of contradictions—filled with grandeur, squalor, sparkling light and deep shade.

It’s the old architecture that still stands, speaking of its former glory of a republic that ruled ages ago; long before the _Ancien Régime_ existed. Perhaps during another visit Illya would find the twisting maze of narrow cobblestone streets and gold-leafed details charming, but neither he or Napoleon have time to bask in the beauty of Genoa.

Guiding his lover, Illya heads towards the far corner of the city after spotting an Orthodox cross on a steeple. Despite having left the country as a child, Illya remembers some of his upbringing and knows it will lead him to the Severnoye Mesto, where his people dwell away from the water. It’s more comfortable for them as most of the Northlands is landlocked, where icy seas aren’t crashing onto its shores.

Curious stares—some even hostile—follow them as they trudge through the crowded streets of the quarter. Illya had cautioned Napoleon not to speak until they were safely inside their room for the evening. They find an inn run by a family of four in the center of the quarter; Illya and the wife converse in their common tongue while Napoleon stands in quiet observation. If the woman has any thoughts about their haggard appearance, she keeps them to herself.

“So,” Napoleon drawls as Illya shuts and bolts the door to their room, “why wasn’t I allowed to speak? Afraid I was going to put my foot in my mouth, Peril?”

Illya rolls his eyes. “Northlanders aren’t the most welcoming to outsiders, Cowboy,” he explains as he shucks off his dust-covered boots. “And even less so to one of their own that speaks the language, but isn’t familiar with their customs. They consider me an _izgnannyy_ —an outcast.”

Napoleon wrinkles his nose in distaste. “That’s rather primeval.”

“It’s the Northlands,” Illya says offhandedly as he continues stripping. There’s a bathroom adjoined to their room and, most importantly, a hot shower, which will be heavenly on his tired body. Once nude, he looks around at his discarded clothing. “We should find a laundress or ask our host.”

“Or purchase new clothes altogether,” Napoleon says. He kicks off his boots and takes a seat on an overstuffed armchair, where he closes his eyes and sighs. “Should I go get us some dinner?”

Illya shakes his head despite Napoleon not seeing it. He thinks that Napoleon sitting there with his head tilted back and cheeks smudged with dust is beautiful. “A meal will be set up in a half hour,” he mentions. “I’m going to have a shower. Will you get the door if I’m not out when they come?”

“Yes, Peril,” Napoleon tells him, waving dismissively. “Don’t use all of the hot water.”

As much as Illya wishes to linger under the shower’s hot spray, he doesn’t. He scrubs his skin clean and washes the dirt out of his hair before stepping out of the stall to dry himself off. Wrapping a towel around his waist, he goes to open the door when he finds Napoleon standing on the other side, his hand held up as if he were knocking. The delicious smell of food wafts from the other room, causing Illya’s stomach to rumble.

“I suppose there’s no need to knock,” Napoleon deadpans as he steps aside. “I think our hosts recognize two hungry travelers when they see them; dinner’s been brought up earlier than expected.”

Illya walks past him, towards the table where a spread of typical Northlander food has been laid out upon a table. He recalls some of the dishes—solyanka soup, cabbage rolls, and pelmeni—from his childhood, while others he’s unfamiliar with. Regardless, the owner of their accommodations has prepared a hearty meal for them to enjoy and Illya couldn’t be more thankful. “Remind me to leave them a very large tip,” he says as he picks up a plate.

Napoleon makes a sound of agreement as does the same, and begins piling food onto his own plate while Illya takes a bit of everything. Neither of them is eager to speak during their meal, save for Illya’s unabashed moan at his first mouthful of solyanka. Napoleon doesn’t even snicker at him, which only shows how famished they are.

Together they eat in a companionable silence while the inn creaks around them.

After his second helping, Napoleon excuses himself to use the shower. Illya watches his retreat as he sets their plates on the tray that came with them, and brings them out to the hallway once he’s certain no one will come upon him standing there in nothing but a towel and his Clipper markings in full view. He’s had to keep them and the sign of the _Tenebrosi_ that he and Napoleon both bear from prying eyes; it’s safer this way.

Illya only goes a few footsteps, if that, beyond the doorway before retreating back into the safety of the room. Inside, he can bear himself as he’s always meant to, since the Clipper markings are a sign of honor. Hiding them is a strange, uncomfortable exercise and a constant reminder of the life he left behind in the Isles. There are days they seem to chafe his skin until the desire to tear them out with a blade becomes overwhelming, but he stops himself. This is what Victoria Vinciguerra and Sanders wanted when they launched their attack—for Illya to fall apart from the strain, and he very nearly did.

While listening to the shower and the sounds of Napoleon washing, Illya realizes what happened isn’t solely his responsibility to bear. His lover—however impish and frustrating he can be—made it implicitly clear after their argument that Illya isn’t alone. Napoleon wants to be there for him and Illya finds that he also shares the sentiment. Besides, if it were for Napoleon, Illya doubts he would have made it all the way to Genoa. He’d probably be holed up in a dingy pub somewhere, drinking himself to an early grave, unless he met his demise by the pointed end of a blade.

Unwrapping the towel from his waist, Illya folds it and sets it on a chair before turning down the bed and crawling onto it. He lets out a grateful sigh as his backside sinks into the mattress and closes his eyes, allowing his thoughts to wander. Somewhere beyond the inn a cat yowls, and a woman’s sharp laughter pierces the air. Water splashes from inside the shower stall, echoing under the gentle melody Napoleon’s decided to hum.

It’s so much like it used to be that Illya can pretend they never left the Isles, or his home, for that matter.

The water slows to dripping as Napoleon turns off the shower and begins fussing around the bathroom, still humming. The melody sounds familiar though Illya cannot place where he’s heard it before. Perhaps in Napoleon’s company while he traced over Illya’s markings with his fingertips, or when he passed by Napoleon’s room in the main house. Regardless of origin, it’s bewitching, much like the man who sings it.

“I feel almost human,” Napoleon announces as he emerges from the bathroom, causing Illya to open his eyes.

What he finds leaves him breathless.

Napoleon stands in the doorway, gloriously naked, while he towel dries his wet hair. Water still drips from his body, rolling down each crevasse that Illya’s pressed his lips to and tasted him. He is the very image of the _Napoleonov_ , but instead of mist, it’s steam that billows around him, drifting with Napoleon’s movements. Rather than a fantastical creature, Napoleon is flesh and bone, and so very real that Illya can hardly believe they’re in the same room.

He feels his desire returning, curling through his marrow and causing his skin to flush. Illya swallows as he drinks in the hypnotic sight of Napoleon, completely unaware of how truly beautiful he is. Or perhaps he knows, but doesn’t let on. It doesn’t matter—all Illya wants is to chase the remaining droplets with his tongue, then explore the cavern of Napoleon’s mouth.

“Cowboy,” Illya manages to say, unable to hide the gravelly tone in his voice.

Napoleon glances at him, his vivid blue eyes partially concealed by the sweep of dark lashes. He looks outrageously coquettish like this. Blinking, Napoleon lowers his hand clutching the towel. “Peril,” he says, softly.

Two words meaningless to others, but hold an abundance of pure want for them. Illya feels the tension in the air as he moves across the bed, leaving the blankets in a rumpled pile, to sit at the edge just to be closer to his lover. “Cowboy,” he says again, beckoning Napoleon to come to him.

He does. Napoleon takes the few steps from where he stands to the space between Illya’s legs. He lets go out of the towel, which falls to the floor with a soft thud. Napoleon gaze allows Illya to see the emotions swimming in his eyes—the uncertainty, the heat, the hesitation—as Illya’s hand drifts up his thigh to Napoleon’s hip. He settles there, caressing the warm skin as Napoleon inhales sharply.

“Peril,” he says, questioningly.

He leans forward, placing a gentle kiss over his hip bone. Then another and another. Illya discovers a delicate path on Napoleon’s skin with his mouth, so faint that they could be hushed declarations. He listens to the gasp falling from Napoleon’s lips as Illya drifts closer to his hardening cock. The tremors coming from Napoleon’s body fills Illya with exhilaration and a multitude of emotions—admiration, want, bewilderment, and so on—as he touches the warmth underneath his fingertips.

“Peril,” Napoleon moans quietly, tilting his head back and exposing the elegant lines of his throat. The flush that’s already settled in his cheeks deepens, spreading down his neck and blooms like blood in water on his chest.

Seeing it in the flesh only makes Illya’s desire grow—soon he will make a pathway with his mouth on Napoleon’s sensitive skin, then other places on his body just to reclaim his lover as Illya’s own. He wants to be intoxicated by his taste and sound. His hands dance their way over the boy’s hips, gliding down the swell of his arse cheeks. He nips at the skin below Napoleon’s navel, tangling his tongue with the fine hairs leading away from it. Illya’s unable to suppress the growl building in his throat as Napoleon’s muscles ripple under his touch—being with him makes Illya feel primal, protective, devoured.

Napoleon uses Illya’s shoulders to keep himself steady, clenching and unclenching his fingers with an aborted moan or equally quiet curse—both keenly aware of being in an unfamiliar city and with strangers. “Peril,” he whispers. His hands glide up Illya’s collarbones and neck until he’s cupping Illya’s face in his palms, looking down at him from under heavy-lidded eyes. “Illya,” he says.

Hearing his own name in Napoleon’s voice sounds like benediction.

Neither of them knows who closes the distance remaining between their mouths, but Illya realizes that both he and Napoleon are entirely powerless to stop themselves as they topple over the edge. They fall onto the mattress, tangling their limbs together as they relearn what it is to kiss each other and breathe the same air. Illya buries his fingers in Napoleon’s damp hair in an effort to tug him closer, if it were possible, and open him up more for Illya’s tongue. He inhales sharply at the taste of his lover—remnants of toothpaste, brine mixed in with the water from the shower, Napoleon’s own unique flavor underneath it all—and rolls him onto his back.

Illya takes a moment to look at the sight before him; black waves splayed against the sheets like white on paper and surround a beloved face seemingly sculpted to god-like perfection, then completed with deep blue eyes as if they were plucked from the sea. Tenderly tracing over Napoleon’s cheeks, he memorizes every curve, every freckle, and color adorning him.

“You are beautiful,” he marvels, unable to contain his affections. Illya understands what his mother meant when she called him passionate as a child. She had been the first to see through his restraint, until Napoleon came crashing into his life and _undid him_.

He kisses Napoleon with the kind of desperation he’s never known before, groaning when Napoleon returns it in kind. They bite and lick into each others’ mouths while their hands roam over their bodies, relearning the topography of skin, bone, muscle. Warmth floods Illya as he and Napoleon continued touching while their hips begin a slow crescendo of movement. He thrusts, rolling his cock against Napoleon’s and smirks in heady delight at the moan wretched from his lover’s throat. Illya does it again and again, each time gaining speed and applying more pressure.

He thinks of slow breaking waves and a swell during a storm as they move against each other. Of the quiet gasps and whimpers tumbling from their mouths, and the salt of sweat on their lips. Of the _Tenebrosi’s_ gift coursing through his and Napoleon’s veins. Of the heat surging from his groin, growing in strength as Napoleon arches into him and whispers with urgency, “Touch me.”

He does; they both do. Illya and Napoleon move as one until they’re both sated and trembling in each other’s arms, feeling alive for the first time in days.

Later, while Illya’s caressing the knobs of Napoleon’s spine, he allows himself to his thoughts. Midnight has come and gone, leaving Illya to believe himself to be the only person awake inside the inn—or on the street below, for that matter.

He’s too keyed up to sleep now that they’ve arrived in Genoa, and there’s still so much to do before they even begin their search for Oleg’s brother. Making a list of what they’ll need keeps Illya from giving into his own panic as he delves into the what-ifs—what if Boris no longer lives in the city and no one knows where he went; what if he’s dead; what if he doesn’t want to help them. Truth be told, Oleg only mentioned Boris in passing, and even that was seldom. Towards the end of his life, he spoke of Boris more often with anecdotes of their boyhood adventures, or called out to his younger brother in a pain-filled delirium.

While Illya has no doubts that the Antonov brothers loved one another it doesn’t mean that Boris will feel obligated to help Oleg’s protégé. He hopes this isn’t the case, but plans for it anyway. Genoa seems to be far enough from Victoria Vinciguerra’s reach to begin anew with Napoleon by his side, though it’s too close to the Northlands for Illya’s comfort. Should the need arise, one of the islands off the Hellas Republic would make a viable option for them.

“Peril, you think too loudly,” Napoleon declares, tiredly. He nuzzles his cheek against Illya’s chest, yawning dramatically. “Have you been awake this entire time?”

A full moon hangs over the port city, drenching everything it touches in silver and illuminating Napoleon’s features, the hollow of his throat, and the dip between his collarbones. Illya traces over them with his stare before nodding. “Couldn’t sleep,” he admits, finding it impossible to lie.

“Well,” Napoleon says as he sits against the headboard and shoulder to shoulder with Illya. “Then I didn’t do my job earlier.”

An undignified snort tumbles from his lips—only Napoleon would think Illya’s insomnia had to do with his sexual performance. His lover is an imp, but an amusing one that keeps Illya from falling victim to himself. “No, Cowboy,” he says as he reaches for Napoleon’s hand and twines their fingers together. “I was thinking about what we’ll need to do come morning.”

“You mean finding Boris Antonov,” Napoleon replies.

Illya nods again. “Yes and no. We’ll need to replenish our supplies and buy new clothes to blend in,” he explains as caresses Napoleon’s knuckles with his thumb. “And exchange our coin for the currency here.”

“Sounds easy enough,” the other man comments, sounding skeptical.

He shrugs. “It should be, but finding Boris is the difficult part. We’ll need to do it carefully so we don’t arouse suspicion. It’s possible that Baron Vinciguerra’s reach extends to Genoa.” Illya reaches for Napoleon’s hair, gently running his fingers through it before tucking several locks behind his ear.

Napoleon silently watches him, eyes searching Illya’s face in the moonlight before he asks, “How possible?”

“I’m not sure,” Illya answers, honestly. “Either way, I’d prefer that we didn’t find out.” He rests his head on his lover’s shoulder with a sigh. “Usually I have a strategy when it comes to these things, but now I feel like I’m trying to catch smoke with my hands.”

“Are you worried that we won’t find Antonov?”

He’s too bone weary to lie, so Illya nods. “Or that we find him and he won’t help us.”

“Do you think he would do that?”

“I’m not sure, Cowboy. I’ve never met him before.”

Napoleon settles his chin on top of Illya’s head and holds him close. They sit like that for a time, watching as the moonlight shifts across the floor. It reminds Illya of home and how much he misses being there. “You know I’ll follow you no matter what, don’t you?” Napoleon asks him.

“Of course,” Illya says, softly. “Even if I’m wrong?”

Napoleon’s arms tighten around him, possessive and attentive. “Even to the ends of the earth, Peril. We’re in this together; you’re stuck with me.”

Illya chuckles as he relaxes into Napoleon’s warm embrace. “There’s no one else I’d want by my side.”

 

* * *

 

By mutual agreement, they spent the next two days recuperating from their travels and preparing for what comes next.

New clothes are purchased while the old ones are thrown out in a dumpster behind the inn, and dry goods are restocked. By venturing into the heart of the _Severnoye Mesto_ and conversing with its inhabitants, it allows for Illya and Napoleon to get a lay of this unfamiliar land. The quarter is a colorful, bustling epicenter for the people from his home country that causes vague, faded memories to arise when Illya least expects it. He recalls the town center where his mother purchased food and other goods for their home; its vibrancy of exotic spices, brightly dyed wool, the smells coming from the poultry stall, and bouquets of flowers seemed too vibrant to be in the icy wasteland.

Oleg once told Illya that a believable lie begins with a semblance of truth. _By telling someone a single truthful fact,_ he had said over dinner in his apartment, _it allows your fabrication to become reality should you find yourself in a situation that requires you to conceal your identity._

It had been a strange lesson to teach a thirteen-year-old boy over dinner, but a valuable one nonetheless. Illya begins weaving a charming story he concocted in his head of he and Napoleon being sailors who came from Marseille after a long and arduous journey on the seas. The pleasant climate and salty air were the perfect mixture for an extended holiday while being close to a port, he tells shop owners, bartenders, and patrons at the inn, before adding a smile for good measure. It feeds into the proudness that runs deep within the citizens of the city, who in turn, tell Illya about the beauty of Genoa and how it outshines Marseille without even trying. He listens patiently, even adding some of his own observations and manages to charm them more often than not.

Then he begins planting the seeds that will lead him to Boris Antonov.

All things considered, it’s relatively easy to include the tale of the ship’s captain’s brother who resides in the glittering city. Illya admits having only met the man once, albeit briefly, but would like to take him out for a meal during his and Napoleon’s respite.

“It’s only polite after all his brother has done for us,” Illya tells the innkeeper’s wife.

Back in the room he shares with Napoleon, his lover asks, “Are you sure it’s safe to inquire so directly about him? What if Baron Vinciguerra has a further reach than we originally thought?”

They’re lying in bed after a long day of exploring, too tired to do anything but wrap themselves up in each other, which suits Illya just fine. “Northlanders keep to themselves, and if Boris is anything like Oleg, he’ll likely have an ear within the _Severnoye Mesto_ ,” he replies as he continues winding and unwinding Napoleon’s hair around his fingers. “As for Victoria Vinciguerra, she would have to pay a lot in gold to even get a finger inside of this place.”

“You sound awfully sure of yourself,” Napoleon comments, extracting himself from Illya. He lifts his head off of Illya’s chest to look at him. “Is there something you aren’t telling me, Peril?”

“I have remarkable instincts,” he says with a shrug.

Napoleon scowls at him. “That’s a lie if I’ve ever heard one! If they are so remarkable, you wouldn’t have needed me to tell you what the mark on your arm was.”

“What if I played dumb just to lure you into my bed?” Illya counters, not wanting to admit that Napoleon has a very good point.

The other man rolls his eyes. “An endeavor that you hadn’t needed to partake in,” Napoleon grouses as he goes to sit on Illya’s hips. “I would have gone to you regardless.”

“Pertinent information I would have appreciated knowing,” Illya quips, gazing up at Napoleon in wonder. Even with how tired he is, Illya feels his desire stirring. “Perhaps…” he begins to say when there’s a persistent knock at the door.

Napoleon splays a hand over his chest. “Leave it,” he says huskily as he leans in. “They’ll leave sooner or later.”

Illya is likely to agree with him, though the person in the hallway is not. They continue knocking, banging louder and louder with their fists until Illya groans and tips Napoleon off of him. “Something tells me they won’t,” he replies as he grabs his pistol and goes to the door. “ _Chto eto_?”

“ _U vas yest’ posetitel’_ ,” a voice on the other side tells him.

“What did they say?” Napoleon asks from the bed.

Illya unlocks the bolts as he says, “We have a visitor.” Opening the door, he finds himself staring at a plump man with brown hair cut close to his skull, a scruffy beard, and hazel eyes. He wears clothing befitting a merchant or, at least, that’s what he wants people to believe. “ _Kto ty_?”

“I’ll tell you once you put that pistol down,” the man tells him in accented English as he leans against the door frame. He sighs when he realizes Illya isn’t putting his weapon away; he almost sounds bored by it. “Hm, just as he described you.”

Illya raises his pistol. “Who?” he demands.

The man rolls his eyes, cursing under his breath, before placing his index finger on the pistol’s barrel and pushing it away from his face. “My brother.”

He blinks in surprise. “Boris Antonov?” Illya questions, watching the man nod.

“See! That’s _much_ better! More of what I was expecting,” the man says delightedly as he pushes passed Illya and comes into the room. “Rather nice lodgings for a pair of runaways,” he comments before turning back to Illya. “I’ve heard you’ve been looking for me.”


	7. Chapter 7

“What? Were you expecting a carbon copy of my brother?” Boris asks jovially.

Illya’s cheeks begin burning; like Oleg, this man calling himself Boris Antonov has deciphered him. He must have noticed something that Illya thought he hid well enough—maybe a twitch, the slightest frown, the firm line of his mouth—but evidently not. Boris has a good-humored nature and is much merrier than Oleg ever was—even on his best days. “I’m not sure.”

Boris’ grin surprises him. “Sorry to disappoint you then!” He gestures to his belly and pats it. “Don’t mind this, though. Still got some fight in me if there’s a need.”

“Are we expecting one?” Illya questions, worried.

“Not yet anyway,” Boris replies. “But you can never be too sure, eh?” His blasé attitude simultaneously makes Illya nervous _and_ annoyed.

Napoleon, who pulled himself out of bed and threw on some clothes when Illya wasn’t paying attention, comes alongside of Illya with his mouth hung open. He’s pale with it as he stares at Boris. “Bajie?” he gasps, eyes wide in surprise.

Illya wrinkles his nose in confusion. “Bajie?” he asks to no one in particular. It’s just as well since Napoleon and Boris have forgotten about his presence.

Boris—or Bajie, rather—turns and lets out a happy sound. “Napoleon Solo!” he says a bit too loudly for Illya’s tastes as he throws his arms around Napoleon, embracing him fiercely. When they pull apart, he holds onto Napoleon’s shoulders and gives him a shake. “My haven’t you grown. The last time we saw each other, you were no higher than my stomach!”

“Has it been that long?” Napoleon asks, laughing. “You’ve hardly changed!”

“You were always a terrible liar,” Bajie says, amused.

Illya gestures between them. “How do you know each other?” He recalls Oleg grumbling about the world being a small place, but never took much stock in the saying until this very moment. It seemed that the monastery was fairly isolated and Illya couldn’t see the abbotts allowing their apprentices to leave.

“Bajie was an abbott at the monastery,” Napoleon explains before turning to Bajie. “Your real name’s Boris?”

He shrugs. “I never liked it much,” Bajie says in distaste. “Too Northlander sounding, honestly. It was easier to change it when I arrived.”

“You’re a _Tenebrosi_?” Illya exclaims.

The other man rolls his eyes in annoyance. “Yes, why don’t we tell the _entire_ inn about our nature, hm? Fantastic idea!” Bajie deadpans as he unbuttons his sleeve cuff and rolls it up with impatience to reveal the same tattoo as on Illya and Napoleon’s forearms. “Bad enough that Baron Konstantin got wind of you being in these parts…”

“What?” Illya shouts as Napoleon asks, “Who?” His heart plummets into his stomach at hearing that name after so long. He’s thought about the Baron—how could he not—from time to time, but never did Illya think that he would crawl back into his life. “That’s impossible!”

Bajie looks at Illya like he’s grown two heads. “Really?” he questions, placing his hands on his hips “Did you think there aren’t eyes and ears in every _Severnoye Mesto_ between Gaul and Zhōngguó? Baron Konstantin wanted to make you into a weapon; he isn’t going to let twenty years stop him!”

“How do _you_ know this?” Illya demands as he towers over Bajie, glaring all the while. “Was it Oleg who told you?” He feels Napoleon’s hand around his elbow, pulling him away. “Stop it, Cowboy!” He yanks his arm from Napoleon’s grasp. “Or did you overhear one of Baron Konstantin’s eyes and ears talking about it?”

He huffs, offended by the implication. “Of course Oleg told me!” Bajie snaps. He grabs one of their bags and tosses it at Napoleon, who catches it. “And as much as I’d like to tell you the rest of this rousing tale of intrigue, we need to leave. _Now_!”

“Why?”

“Must you counter _everything_ I tell you?” Bajie asks. “If you _must know_ , the group of Baron Konstantin’s clippers are going to figure out that I sent them in the wrong direction before they manage to find us and I’d like us to be on our way towards the docks. Or, even more preferable, on a boat.”

Illya pales. “They’re here?”

“Less talking and more packing, if you will!” Bajie says, shoving Illya towards his things. “Chop, chop now!” he orders, punctuating each word with a clap of his hands.

Despite the overwhelming desire to throw Bajie out of the room, Illya does his bidding. He and Napoleon manage to pack their rucksacks and finish dressing in record time while Bajie stands by the locked door. While Illya straps the last vambrace to his forearm, a commotion and five pairs of footsteps fill the hallway. The distinct sound of Northlander being spoken by a gravelly voice reaches his ears. “I thought you said they would have figured out they were heading in the wrong direction _after_ we left?” Illya hisses.

“I might have been overly generous in my estimate,” Bajie admits. He gestures to the dresser. “One of you help me with this.”

Napoleon’s still lacing up his boots, leaving Illya to come to Bajie’s aid as they barricade the door. “What’s your plan now?” Illya snarls, unable to hide the venom in his voice. If this man—Oleg’s brother or not—thinks a heavy piece of furniture is going to keep Baron Konstantin’s clippers from entering, he’s more of an idiot than Illya originally suspected.

“I don’t suppose either of you mind heights,” Bajie says as he rushes over to the window and throws it open, letting the salty air into the room. With one of his legs slung over the ledge, Bajie motions for Illya and Napoleon to follow him.

Illya likes to think the only reason he does is that he and Napoleon have no other opinion, but in reality, he knows it’s furthest from the truth. Bajie can offer them the protection Illya is unable to give—something he notes with a fair amount of bitterness—and they have to take it.

So off the three of them go, trapezing from one building to the next via the flat roofs that every structure but churches and temples seem to have in Genoa. Illya noticed pickpockets and street urchins using them to evade whoever they’ve managed to swindle as they are perfect for losing anyone who might pursue them. Illya knows the irony of a lawman like himself using this means of escape and tries not to wonder what Waverly, Gaby, and the others might think of it.

It’s thoughts like those that Illya has to push away as he sprints from rooftop to rooftop as he follows behind Napoleon and Bajie, who is surprisingly more athletic than he appears, while narrowly avoiding ceramic plants, laundry lines, and other objects in his path. The sounds of pursuit echo from several buildings back, much to the occupants’ entertainment; their whoops and laughter ring louder than the Konstantin clippers’ shouts, though the wind slashes through it all. It’s near blistering at this height and even more so when Illya takes another leap, suspended above the streets for a single, weightless moment before landing against the tiles of the next structure.

Bajie grabs him by the arm the moment his feet touch the tiles below them and pushes Illya into a stairwell where Napoleon waits for them. He notices a broken doorknob discarded on the ground. “This way,” Bajie says before heading down the stairs.

“Where are you taking us?” Illya demands, following after Bajie since he and Napoleon have no other options.

“The docks,” Bajie says over his shoulder. “Then to my friend’s boat that will take us away from here.”

Illya frowns at the vague answer. “Which is where?”

“Less talking and more moving, if you will,” Bajie tells him.

He bristles. “I _can_ do both,” Illya snaps as he feels the warmth of Napoleon’s hand on his shoulder. He shrugs him off. “I can,” he says to no one in particular.

“I’m not saying you can’t, boy,” Bajie replies. “But if you are caught by those clippers, myself and others would prefer if you didn’t know where we were headed.” He pushes a door that opens to a dimly lit hallway with dark carpet and gaudy wallpaper.

Napoleon speaks up. “Others?”

“Others like us,” Bajie elaborates in a whisper. He pulls out a pistol as he peers around the corner and sighs with visible relief. Turning to Napoleon he asks, “Did you think the monastery was the only place where the _Tenebrosi_ gathered?”

Illya watches Napoleon shrug. “It seemed as much.”

“There are other safe havens for the _Tenebrosi_ , including the monastery on Gersui. Come,” Bajie says, leading them down the hallway and out of the building without much incident.

Outside, the streets are virtually empty save for stragglers returning from whatever nightly entertainment they partook in. Bajie keeps them under the shadow of the building while he listens for signs that the clippers are approaching. Other than wind chimes twinkling in the breeze and a fog horn making a mournful sound in the distance, they seem to be safe for the time being. “This way,” Bajie tells Illya and Napoleon.

“How many others?” Napoleon questions. “Why didn’t the abbotts tell us?”

Bajie snorts at his former apprentice’s indignant tone. “They would have told you after you took your vows,” he says. “And there are at least six that I know of.”

Napoleon clears his throat. “You mean five,” he whispers.

“Yes,” Bajie says, quietly. Illya notices the tightness of grief around the other man’s eyes. “Now there are five.”

They continue on, weaving their way through the darkened streets and alleys. When Illya allows himself a moment to catch a glimpse of Napoleon, he finds the same horrible, unreadable expression on his face from the first time they truly spoke to one another. The listless grimace of a man who had been unable to help those he cared about and watched them die as a result. That look of fear, anger, sadness, and remorse in finding himself amongst strangers and unfairly alive. For a night that seemed so long ago, the emotions remain the same months later. Illya wishes he could do something to ease Napoleon’s sorrows, but it’ll have to wait.

“Almost there,” Bajie tells them as the fog horn grows louder and they set foot on the docks. “The sooner we leave this godforsaken place…”

There’s a brief moment where Illya’s confused as to why Bajie has stopped mid-sentence and stopped moving, period. As he turns, Illya notices their path blocked by a group of shadows with their weapons glinting in the moonlight. Instinctively he pushes Napoleon behind him and reaches for his pistol. “I believe Baron Konstantin’s clippers found us,” he says to Bajie.

“No! You don’t say!” Bajie snaps, oozing sarcasm. “How observant you are, Regent Kuryakin. It’s no wonder my brother chose you as his successor.”

Bristling with contempt, Illya squeezes the grip on his pistol as he silently counts the number of clippers. There are eight in total with more on the way, and most likely all armed. While he doesn’t recall the exact weapons the Konstantin clippers carried, Illya can only assume it’s similar to his own—throwing daggers, a sword, and a gun if they are lucky. Either way, they’re highly trained and can easily overwhelm his companions and himself. “How far is the boat from here?” he asks.

“Just beyond that last lamp post there,” Bajie replies as he removes another pistol from his coat.

Illya sighs. “Of course it is,” he mutters to himself. “I hope they taught you how to fight at the monastery.”

“Why?” Napoleon questions as he brushes passed Illya, sounding apprehensive as the clippers come closer.

He doesn’t answer; his eyes are on the first clipper to break away from the pack with his sword drawn and heading towards Napoleon. He watches the metal glinting as it swings and listens for the dull ping sound as it hits his vambrace, blocking the weapon from its target. Illya twirls around him, sending the clipper into confusion before slamming the butt of his pistol against the man’s nose.

With a pained howl, the clipper drops his sword to clutch his broken nose. Illya brings the pistol down again—this time making contact with the man’s head. As the now unconscious clipper slumps onto the dock, Illya kicks his sword up by the handle and catches it. He spares Napoleon a glance when he notices three more clippers coming from behind them. Pushing Napoleon out of the way, Illya blocks their swords with his own, the clashing of metal hissing from the contact. Then all hell breaks loose.

The clippers’ grunts and shouts fill Illya’s mind as they close in on him and his companions. Firmly holding his weapons, Illya changes his guard and stance before the next clipper roars as he slashes at Illya’s head. Bending back, Illya narrowly avoids the sword but not the punch that comes after. Pain flares up from his stomach, causing him to crumble to his knees and takes his breath. Feeling the air move around him as the clipper draws his weapon into the air, Illya thrusts his blade into the man’s stomach, violently slashing him open before jumping to his feet to avoid the spray of blood.

He leaves the clipper where he fell to deal with the next one. That poor soul ends up in the water, sputtering and cursing as his comrade splashes next to him, struck dead by bullets fired from Bajie’s guns. Another man meets his end thanks to Napoleon, who impedes the man’s sword arm with his own blade and plunges it into his chest, cutting his scream of malice short.

Another clipper comes up behind Bajie, who’s busy dispatching two more; Illya fires his pistol, sending the man into the water with a bullet hole in the center of his forehead. He watches Bajie whip around and back again, revealing comically wide eyes.

“Thanks,” he says once he’s able to speak.

“Don’t mention it,” Illya replies, shrugging. He and Bajie hurry to Napoleon’s sides, flanking him as they press into the fray and towards their means of escape.

Clippers keep coming, sneering at the trio before they attack and meet their end by bullets or a blade. The tacky stickiness of their blood coats the front of Illya’s clothing where it’s not splattered across his skin. Seeing this violence isn’t anything new to him, though watching Napoleon battle at his side is. His lover fighting is both beautiful and exhilarating to witness; Napoleon moves gracefully, like he’s in a choreographed dance of carnage; like he’s a warrior. As their eyes meet, Illya smiles while Napoleon opens his mouth to call out in warning.

It comes too little too late as Napoleon’s words are drowned out by the clap of a gun firing. If he flinches or cries out, Illya doesn’t recall. One moment he’s standing and the next he’s lying on the dock, his weapons bouncing once, twice, before falling into the water below.

Then pain sinks its sharp claws into him.

Illya lies on the dock, unable to scream as agony blooms from his side and rapidly spreads through his body. He manages to press a hand to the source, only to find his fingers becoming wet. He doesn’t need to see that they’re covered in blood; he smells it, he tastes it on his tongue, he feels it leaving him.

“Peril!” Napoleon shouts long before Illya sees him. Licking his lips, he takes one determined look at Illya and turns away. “Bajie! Cover him.”

Bajie appears, cursing a blue streak in Northlander when he sees Illya. Tearing off his scarf, he bats Illya’s hand away to press it against the wound. “What are you going to do?” he demands as Napoleon grabs a dagger from a dead clipper. “Napoleon!”

“Cover him,” Napoleon repeats as he disappears from Illya’s line of sight.

“Cowboy,” Illya wheezes, struggling to sit up. Every movement—hell, even breathing—threatens to send him into the abyss and, honestly, he wants to be there if it weren’t for Napoleon about to do something incredibly stupid. Illya feels it in his marrow. “Cowboy…what are you…”

He manages to lean against Bajie just as a streak of silver flashes over Napoleon’s palm. Illya barely has time to register it before he’s watching the dagger slip from Napoleon’s fingers and onto the dock, blade first. It embeds itself in the wood while blood drips from his lover’s palm.

Then he notices how the world goes unnaturally still. Even the clippers attacking them pause to watch Napoleon stand before them. Panic surges through Illya as he sees Napoleon bringing his arms together and crossing at them at the wrist.

“Shit,” Bajie mutters. “Terribly sorry about this!” He throws Illya and himself back down, igniting another burst of pain from his side.

He yells as a concussion force emits from Napoleon. Boats slams against the dock while waves crash into it, spraying cold water on everyone gathered there. Lamp posts explode, sending shards of glass in every direction. Clippers become airborne with surprised cries before they land with a hard thud and cease to move.

Swallowing down nausea, Illya blinks away the sparkling darkness and finds Napoleon swaying on his feet, his arms hanging limply at his sides. “Cowboy,” he rasps as he tries to sit upright. A howl of pain builds in his throat until he witnesses Napoleon collapsing in a heap. “Cowboy!” he yells, horrified.

Two silhouettes appear in the dark, hurrying towards the once chaotic scene. “Bajie!” shouts a voice—a woman’s voice, Illya realizes.

Bajie utters a few words of relief in Northlander as he slings one of Illya’s arms over his shoulders. “I hope Sunny’s with you, Lily,” Bajie replies, “because I’m going to need some assistance in getting these two on the boat.” He sits up, taking Illya with him. “Sorry,” he apologizes when Illya cries out in pain.

The woman—Lily—rushes over to them and gingerly drapes Illya’s other arm over her shoulders before helping Bajie get him to his feet. “What happened?” she asks as the other man—Sunny, evidently—lifts Napoleon and begins hurrying away.

“Idiot boy overextended himself!” Bajie hisses in reply. He casts a sidelong glance at Illya. “For _him_ , I reckon.”

“I never asked him to,” Illya states, unable to hide his grimace as Bajie and Lily help him walk. Another step causes him to hiss through his clenched jaw.

Bajie scoffs. “As if you needed to!”

A retort forms on his tongue until it’s wiped away by another wave of pain and, this time, Illya’s unable to swallow down his scream. He squeezes the fabric of Lily and Bajie’s jackets, willing himself not to pass out despite his desire to. The latest assault leaves his face feeling cold from the blood rushing away from it to the waistband of his trousers, where it gathers in abundance.

“Breathe,” Lily coaches softly. “Keep breathing. That’s it.”

Shakily, he sucks in a breath, then another until Illya manages to see without stars in his vision. “Your bedside manner is much better than your companion’s,” he says.

“Ha!” Lily replies, delightedly. “Between you and me, Bajie has the manners of a swine. Isn’t that right, old man?” She flashes Bajie a smirk and laughs again when he rolls his eyes. “Come. Minerva will need to take a look at him.”

Bajie nods in agreement. “Let’s hope she can remove a bullet on that rickety contraption you call a boat.”

“I’ll have you know that the _Queen of the River_ is a perfectly sea-ready vessel!” Lily fires back. “It got us here, didn’t it?”

“Keyword: River,” Bajie argues. “Not _Queen of the Seas_ , but a blasted river! Honestly, woman, who let you come with us?”

Lily snorts. “You did,” she answers.

Chagrined, Bajie goes silent for the rest of the way to the boat which Illya is grateful for, though not as much as seeing the slip where the _Queen of the River_ is moored. Someone waits for them at the end of the gangplank and hurries over when they come close enough.

“Sunny told me what happened,” she says as she slips Illya’s arm from Lily’s shoulders to her own. Lily runs up the gangplank and disappears inside the boat.

Bajie nods. “How’s Napoleon?”

“Still alive,” she tells him. She peers at Illya’s back, wrinkling her nose at the blood staining his clothes and looks him in the eye. “That’ll need to come out as soon as possible.”

Illya hisses when a step down shoots pain through his body. “Will Napoleon be alright?”

“He was coming around before I came to meet you both,” she assures. “Nothing some rest won’t cure. He’s lucky, but as for you…” She raises an eyebrow before continuing. “Well…I’m surprised you’re still conscious.”

“So am I,” Illya manages to grunt as they keep moving into the boat’s belly. Each step threatens to take his senses away—and his ability to suppress a scream—from him. He swears he feels the bullet burrowing deeper into his body, carving another path to keep from being removed. Under his feet, the _Queen of the River_ ’s engines roars to life and begins moving out of the slip. “Where’s Napoleon?”

The woman nudges a door open with her foot. “Never mind him,” she says before turning to Bajie. “Get Sunny in here and tell him to bring a bottle of vodka.”

“You said he’ll be alright,” Illya rasps as Bajie lets go of his shoulder and hurries out of the room.

“I did,” she replies. “Come on…just a few more steps and you’ll be able to sit.” She helps Illya over to a wooden bench, which she eases him down on. “Are you going to be sick?” she asks when Illya turns paler.

He shakes his head, barely noticing her removing his jacket and dumping it onto the floor. From what little time he has to take in his surroundings, it’s one of the crew’s quarters and, evidently, not used very often despite how clean it is. The woman, on the other hand, is slight with fiery hair that she wears in a bun, with delicate features that remind him of Tilda. Soon the sensation of blood-soaked material being peeled away from his skin fills Illya with more pain, causing him to dig his fingers into the bench.

“Breathe,” she gently commands as she continues disrobing his torso for a better view of his injury. “Keep breathing, young man.”

Through clenched teeth, he breathes. “Illya,” he spits out during a brief respite. “My name…it’s Illya.”

“Minerva,” she replies with a grin as Sunny appears in the door with a bottle and says, “Bajie said you needed me.”

With sharp cheekbones and impossibly dark eyes, Sunny seems like he could be fearsome when provoked, but right now, he’s the calm in the storm. He comes into the room, moving so quietly that Illya thinks if he weren’t looking at him, Sunny might be a figment of his imagination. “What can I do?” he asks in a soft-spoken voice.

“Open that bottle for me if Bajie hasn’t done so himself. I need to wash my hands with it before I get that bullet out,” Minerva tells him as she stands.

Together, they hurry to a sink, where Sunny dumps the vodka on her hands from the sounds of it. Illya slumps over on his side, moaning every time the boat hits a spot of rough water on its way out of the harbor. He wishes Napoleon were here and not tucked away in another part of the _Queen of the River_ , only so he could listen to his voice or hold his hand to take his mind off the pain. Even staring at Napoleon’s beautiful face would make all of this agony go away.

“Hold him down,” Minerva orders as she rifles through something—a bag, perhaps.

Hands press him to the bench and effectively pins him there. “What are you doing?” Illya asks, hoarsely, trying to free himself from Sunny’s grasp.

“Stay still,” Sunny says, tightening his grip. His strength surprises Illya with how slight his build is—then again, Illya knows never to underestimate anyone. “I know you’re frightened, but it’ll be over in just a moment.” Just beyond the man’s shoulder, Minerva approaches them with a metal object in her hand.

“What will be over?” Illya questions, his eyes going wide in horror. With all his attention on Sunny, Illya doesn’t realize Minerva coming closer until she’s bent over his wound with a pair of forceps. He recalls Gaby using them when patching up an injured clipper or household staff; how gently she applied them while speaking softly. How her bedside manner made even the weariest patient at ease. Illya wishes she were here now to tend to him.

Red hot pain fills his vision as the forceps latch onto something inside of Illya, twisting and pulling enough for him to jerk against Sunny’s grasp. Physical torment sheets through him with such intensity that Illya’s practically submerged in it, growing stronger.

A searing, fiery explosion swallows and drags Illya into oblivion’s waiting arms.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for joining me on this journey. I may or may not pick this AU back up...we'll see! Extra special thank you to Heather, Leah, and Bre for being lovely.

Sunlight dances in front of his eyelids.

That’s only the beginning of his reemergence to the conscious world. It’s a slow and tedious one filled with spots of green and red against otherwise black surroundings, not to mention a dull throb radiating from his back. Trying to blink becomes an arduous task that Illya loathes as soon as he manages to open one eye. There’s a sour taste in his mouth and more than anything, he wants to go back to the sweet oblivion from which he came.

In other words—he feels _awful_ ; possibly worse than. Not even the warm breeze drifting over his abused body can change his opinion.

“Peril?” Napoleon asks, whispering softly. The air moves around him as Napoleon shifts his position to grasp both of his hands; cooler than his own.

Blinking away the blurriness and grit in his vision, Napoleon’s face comes into focus. Pale and bruised, he resembles someone after a long illness, only made worse by the fact that he isn’t smiling. There isn’t a memory that Illya has where Napoleon doesn’t have a grin or smirk, even if it’s highly inappropriate for the situation. It not being there seems very wrong.

Illya swallows, wetting the parched tissues in his throat. “You look terrible, Cowboy,” he says in a brittle, unused voice that makes him wince when he hears it.

“Which is _much_ better than you,” Napoleon fires back as he reaches behind him, producing a cup that’s perspiring on the outside. “Water will help.” He holds it under Illya’s lips as he drinks. “Small sips, Peril,” he chides gently. “Minerva will have my hide if you get sick.”

Illya raises both eyebrows. “How long?”

“Not even half a day,” Napoleon answers, already knowing the last part of the question. “Done?”

Nodding, Illya realizes that he’s lying on his side with cushions between himself and the wall of the quarters Minerva and Bajie bodily dragged him to. The stench of blood and panic have been replaced by the salty air and the gentle motion of a ship rocking against the waves. “We’re still at sea?” he realizes. Underneath a white comforter, Illya finds bandages wrapped around his middle; he carefully inspects despite the obvious discomfort. Pushing himself upright sends pain pulsing from underneath—if it weren’t any more clear, moving is a decidedly terrible idea.

“Don’t touch that,” Napoleon orders as he gently moves Illya’s hands away. “We’re about fifteen hours from the island they’re taking us to. A place that used to be called Malta.” He rubs his thumbs over Illya’s knuckles before bringing them to his lips where he keeps them as he sighs with profound relief. Pressing his cheek against them, Napoleon whispers, “I have no idea what I would have done if you had died.”

“Probably the same I would have,” Illya answers as he squeezes Napoleon’s fingers.

Napoleon lifts his head, revealing watery, red eyes. Aside from the first time he saw Napoleon trussed up by his wrists, Illya cannot think of another time he saw his lover cry, though one thing’s for certain—seeing Napoleon in any sort of distress doesn’t seem right. “Burn the world to the ground,” Napoleon states.

“And then some,” Illya says as he brushes tears from Napoleon’s cheeks and tenderly traces over the knicks he sustained during their escape. A flash of the pain Illya felt upon realizing he had been shot vividly bubbles to the forefront of his mind; that white-hot agony stealing his breath away. Illya was so consumed by it that he can’t recall if he lost control of himself or not. “The dark gift…did I? ”

Napoleon shakes his head. “No, thankfully. It seems that everyone—including the _Tenebrosi_ —has limits to their pain. That’s probably why mine didn’t do the same when the Vinciguerra clippers tortured me.”

“I suppose that makes sense,” Illya says quietly. “Have you rested?”

His lover avoids eye contact as he shrugs; it’s painfully obvious he hasn’t. “I wanted to make sure that you were going to be alright.”

“Cowboy…come here. You forget that beds, including one of this size, can fit two people if the occasion arises,” Illya quips. It’s true—the mattress has plenty of room for them to share and he thinks he may rest easier with Napoleon in his arms. He tilts his head, waiting.

With a sigh, Napoleon acquiesces. “You drive a hard bargain,” he complains as he lifts the comforter and slides underneath, lying with his back pressed against Illya’s chest.

“Or,” Illya counters as he laces his fingers with Napoleon’s, “perhaps you’re easy to convince.”

Napoleon arches a brow. “Oh?” he asks. He rolls onto his side to face Illya. Close up, darkness clings to the underside of Napoleon’s eyes, a spot of purple colors his jaw while his cheekbone on the opposite side has been rubbed raw. None of these things take away from his lover’s beauty, though Illya wishes he could have spared Napoleon from these injuries. “Is that such a bad thing, Regent Kuryakin?”

“Not particularly.”

Running his fingers through Illya’s hair, Napoleon grins. “Then stop complaining, Peril,” he teases.

Illya welcomes the weight of Napoleon’s head on his shoulder and where his breathing brushes against his neck. With a content sigh, he drops a kiss into his lover’s hair as relief washes over him. “What will become of us once we arrive in Malta?”

“We’ll be sacrificed to the _Tenebrosi_ gods for our trespasses,” Napoleon deadpans. He presses himself into Illya’s side. “Your training will begin once Minerva determines that you’re ready for it.”

He groans at the notion of having to wait _again_. “I don’t suppose that she’s easily bribed.”

“Probably not. You’ll just need to be patient,” Napoleon says, yawning a moment later.

“I can be patient,” Illya grouses, mildly insulted by Napoleon’s insinuation. “Patience is one of the tenements of becoming a clipper, let alone a regent.” He thinks about Napoleon’s foolish actions from the night before and how they could have killed him as well as others. “What you did on the docks—what was that?”

Napoleon looks at him. “Before you start, Bajie already gave me an earful as soon as I began coming around.”

“Oh good. That makes my life a bit easier then,” Illya says as he tries to hide the grin on his face, snorting when he sees Napoleon’s scowl. He clears his throat, then asks, “Are you going to tell me or shall I get it out of Bajie?”

The other man raises his eyebrow. “Believe it or not, Bajie was the best abbott at the monastery,” he retorts. “I bet he could withstand your Regent interrogation!”

“Possibly,” Illya replies, shrugging. “I’d rather hear it from you if it’s all the same.”

Napoleon lets out a sigh. “When you put it like that…” He reaches for the hair stuck to Illya’s forehead, brushing them aside before continuing. “What I did is called the _Tenebrosi_ Push and, as you’ve probably guessed, it’s incredibly dangerous to perform. Very few of us survive.” He winces as he says the last part.

“Cowboy…” Illya gently chastises, shaking his head in the way Oleg used to when Illya did something especially reckless. “Why would you do such a thing?”

“We were outnumbered, outmanned by those clippers,” Napoleon tells him. It’s the truth—there were far too many of Konstantin's clippers for a group of three to defeat. He takes Illya’s hands in his own. “Peril, I actually saw _red_ when you were shot!”

Illya cups Napoleon’s cheek in his palm. “I’d not have you risk your life for my sake.”

“You don’t understand! Those men would have killed Bajie and me before hauling you back to the Northlands!” Napoleon protests.

He knows Napoleon’s right—Baron Konstantin is the same man who sent his clippers after Illya and his parents, following them to the shores of the Channel and would have ordered such a thing twenty years later. A shiver goes down Illya’s spine as an image of irons around his wrists and the unforgiving cold of Northlands.

A fate worse than death. A hell not of Illya’s own making.

“I couldn’t— _can’t_ —lose you, Peril,” Napoleon says, quietly. His breath tickles Illya’s cheek.

Illya stares into the deep blue sea of Napoleon’s eyes where he finds a safe haven in the midst of chaos reflected back in them. “You fool,” he replies. “Do you think losing you won’t pain me just as much? If so, I’d say you are wrong.”

“Fool or no, I won’t allow our enemies to tear us apart,” Napoleon tells him.

“What about our friends?”

Napoleon tilts his head. “I wouldn’t call them friends if that is their intentions.” He continues studying Illya under the afternoon sun streaming into the room. “You don’t trust Bajie,” he observes. He sounds sad; defeated, even.

“I barely trust myself,” Illya points out as he lowers his eyes.

Warm hands cup his face, lifting his chin until Illya meets Napoleon’s gaze. It’s unfamiliar _and_ uncomfortable to have someone study him so closely—so intimately. Illya remembers a time where he avoided relationships lasting beyond a night or two and preferred to keep his closest friends at a safe distance. For all Gaby, Tilda, and Adele’s—even Waverly—teasing about his stoic nature, he can’t hide from Napoleon; nor does he want to. Illya’s fallen headlong into Napoleon and hasn’t stopped since their eyes first met.

Napoleon presses his lips against both of Illya’s cheeks, then eyelids, where he lingers. “Illya,” Napoleon whispers like a secret. “You’re the most trustworthy person I know.”

“You would do better to place it in someone else,” Illya tells him.

He flashes him a smile. “Probably,” Napoleon agrees, pushing several stray hairs from Illya’s forehead. “I choose you, Peril. For better or worse.”

“You won’t be saying that when we’re dead,” Illya weakly protests.

Napoleon shrugs. “Honestly, we won’t be saying much of anything,” he jokes.

With as tired and sore as he is, Illya can’t even muster the energy to suppress an eyeroll. “Cowboy…” He hides his face in the curve of Napoleon’s neck and breathes him in, content not to say anything else while Napoleon rubs between his shoulders.

He falls asleep to the soothing rhythm, not remembering having done so until blinking himself awake many hours later. The sounds of someone shuffling around the cabin in semi-darkness rouse him from Illya slumber; glass vials clink together as they move in the larger container while the person holding them hums softly. Despite the poor lighting, Illya is able to make out their shape to realize it’s Minerva in his company, whereas the space Napoleon once occupied has gone cold in his absence.

“If you’re looking for your friend, he’s having a meal with the others,” Minerva says from over her shoulder as she continues putting things away. Her foresight reminds him of Odessa and brings a sudden pang of loss that fills Illya’s chest with an ache he thinks he’ll never be rid of. “And don’t think about getting out of that bed without assistance!” After turning on the lights, she finally turns around to reveal her stern expression under a halo of red hair.

Gaby and her doctor’s orders come to mind and the ache sharpens, bringing the sting of tears to Illya’s eyes. He brushes them away to get rid of the evidence and nods in reply since words are failing him. Minerva sets her basket down before walking over to him. “May I?” she asks, motioning to Illya’s bandaged midsection.

“Of course,” he says.

Together, they situate Illya against the wall where he shakes off the momentary dizziness from lying down for so long.

“Any nausea, fatigue?” she asks as she goes to wash her hands in a basin filled with water.

“Just sore.”

She snorts. “Well, you _did_ have a bullet in your back,” Minerva tells him with laughter in her voice. “If you weren’t in some sort of discomfort, I’d wonder if you were actually human.” Once she’s dried her hands, she comes back to Illya and begins unrolling the bandages. “ _Tenebrosi_ or not, we all feel pain.”

Illya swallows. “You’re a _Tenebrosi_?”

“Of course I am,” Minerva says. She stops fussing over the bandages to roll up her sleeve and exposing the tattoo Illya and her share. “With the exception of Lily, everyone on this boat is.” Minerva doesn’t bother fixing her clothing as she goes back to attending to Illya.

He winces at the feeling of the bandages sticking to his wound where it’s most tender. “Until last night, Napoleon was the one Tenebrosi I knew, and before then I didn’t know my own nature,” Illya admits.

“Huh,” Minerva replies as she unwinds the once white bandages to reveal more of his injury. “You were never sent to the Little Sisters for training?”

Illya shakes his head. “No…my training was to be a clipper and eventually Regent.”

Minerva looks at him with wrinkled eyebrows before they soften and she continues working. “That explains the markings on your back. You’re awfully young to have killed so many.”

“I did what was expected of me,” he says, feeling suddenly defensive. “What _Oleg_ trained me to do,” he adds with a hint of bitterness.

“Ah, Oleg,” Minerva replies in a wistful tone, shaking her head with a sad smile. “I met him once; brilliant, but stubborn bastard if there was one. He must have been a great teacher.”

Illya wonders if her comment is a loaded one; it wouldn’t be the first time someone said as much. Whether it be an overly confident colt, Sanders, or a bloodthirsty clipper, he’s heard his fair share of jabs aimed to provoke him into a duel. “He was,” he says carefully. “I couldn’t have asked for a better one.”

Minerva shrugs as she peels away the last of the bandages and begins to inspect the wound and the bruised skin around it. Illya notices that the jagged circle has been cauterized, but not stitched together as he expected. It appears shinier than the rest of his flesh; angrier too.

“I used a spoon,” Minerva explains as she gently touches him. “We didn’t have the proper instruments for me to sew the skin back together, so I had to improvise.”

He winces at the image of a red-hot spoon pressed against burning flesh. “It’s a good thing I passed out when you removed the bullet.”

“Indeed,” she replies. Minerva makes a clicking sound as she stands, wiping her hands on her pants. “You’ll be pleased to know that it’s not infected.”

To say Illya’s relieved is a bit of an understatement; he figures his survival has to do with Minerva’s medical expertise more than the Tenebrosi gift running through his veins. “That’s good.”

“Good? Pfft,” Minerva tells him, seeming slightly offended by his blasé response. “Nevermind the bastard who shot you had lousy aim and could have embedded that bullet in your kidneys!”

Illya bites the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. He recalls Lydia saying people with red hair had equally fiery personalities—something Illya thought to be an old wives’ tale cooked up in a parlor. If Lydia were still alive, she would be undoubtedly proven correct by Minerva as she continues to mutter about her patient. Illya stays perfectly still as Minerva rebandages his midsection.

“Now,” she says once she’s satisfied by the bandages’ sturdiness, “I’ll bring you something to eat so you might take something for the pain.” Minerva smiles like a sphinx as she helps Illya lie back against the pillows. “You think I didn’t see that poorly concealed grimace or felt you flinch?”

He shakes his head. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Wise man,” Minerva chuckles. “Don’t move around too much or you’ll aggravate the knitting tissue; I’ll be back momentarily.”

With that, she leaves Illya to his own devices. The lack of company allows him to become familiar with his surroundings sans any distractions. Rich wood paneling makes up the walls of his temporary quarters, continuing to the floor and creating the nook in which the bed is situated in. Illya touches the smooth, aged surface to feel its coolness against his palm and thinks this must have been a fine ship in its heyday.

He hasn’t thought much of the world during the _Ancien Régime_ ; what Illya has learned is through his lessons as a colt or through the books in Alexander’s library. He knows of the chaos and its sudden end, but not the details in between. The remnants left behind show glittering beauty within the ashes of trouble; perhaps Bajie or someone at their destination could satisfy his curiosity.

Two pairs of footsteps approach his quarters—one more hurried than the other—moments before Napoleon appears in the doorway. “Peril,” he says, smiling mischievously as he approaches the bed. Sitting on the edge, he cups Illya’s cheek in his hand. “I hope you aren’t giving Minerva too much trouble.”

“He’s been a perfect angel, unlike you and Bajie,” Minerva snaps as she enters with a tray in her hands. With only a nod, she commands Napoleon to move aside.

She sets Illya’s dinner on his lap; next to a steaming bowl of hearty stew is a generous hunk of multi-grain bread. His stomach rumbles at the sight as he picks up the spoon and begins to eat while the others look on. Having an audience is as embarrassing as he remembers from the time he was a boy, having his first warm meal in weeks while Waverly, Lydia, and Oleg watched him. Instead of his cheeks turning bright pink, Illya soldiers on by savoring every spoonful.

“Perfect angel,” Bajie harrumphs, arms crossed and pouting as he comes into the room.

Minerva grins. “You would be good to follow his example!”

“I bet Illya was your brother’s favorite pupil,” Napoleon says, proudly.

“Oh, he was,” Bajie replies. “He spoke of Regent Kuryakin often in his letters to me.” His expression softens at an unspoken memory. “You made him very proud.”

A lump forms in Illya’s throat as he swallows down another mouthful of stew. “What will become of us when we reach Malta?” he asks, changing the subject to less personal.

“We’ll begin your training since I reckon you’ve got twenty years of learning to catch up on,” Bajie tells him as he wipes his eyes on his sleeve, before catching Minerva’s scathing look. Clearing his throat, he adds, “Once you are completely healed, of course.”

The corners of Illya’s mouth twitch with amusement. “Of course,” he echoes before going back to his meal.

 

* * *

 

Malta appears at dawn, rising up out of the sea in a myriad of golds, oranges, and pinks.

Even from a distance, the island’s vibrance glitters more than the turquoise water surrounding it; isolated from the mainland, yet easily fortified after centuries of warfare and conquering. Something about Malta’s splendor rivals Genoa’s grandeur, the Isle’s lush countryside, and the other sights Illya’s seen in his twenty-six years. It’s so very different from the jagged crags found in the Isles or the icy wasteland of the Northlands. From the white limestone cliffs to the colorful assortment of architecture Sunny told him about, Illya understands why the _Tenebrosi_ have made their home here.

Illya leans against the railing where the sea sprays his face with a fine mist while the sun burns off the remnants of fog and warms his skin. It’s been an hour since Illya gave into his restlessness, untangled himself from Napoleon’s limbs, and wandered. Sunny is the only other person awake and stands at the helm, while the ship sleeps to the gentle hum of the engines. Soon everyone else will join them and this quiet moment will be gone. They’ll be bustling around to prepare for their landing and then the next leg of his and Napoleon’s journey will begin.

Closing his eyes, Illya thinks of how he used to savor solitude—even as a boy. There were spots only known to him so he could have a respite from the other colts; places hidden in plain sight that no one would think to find a child practicing his English, or losing his Northlander accent per the request of his Regent. Sometimes Illya would bring a tactics book, other times he would bask in the quiet. Funny how he still does.

Lost in his thoughts, Illya doesn’t hear the slap of bare feet on the deck until arms wrap around his waist. Grinning, he leans into the embrace as Napoleon presses a sleepy kiss into his nape.

“So that’s it,” he muses, noticing Malta on the horizon.

“It is,” Illya says.

Napoleon rests his chin on Illya’s shoulder. “I thought it would be bigger.”

“Bigger you say?” Illya replies with a chuckle. “Perhaps your opinion will change once we make landfall.”

He feels Napoleon shrugging against him. “Perhaps.” Napoleon tightens his embrace as he hums into Illya’s back. “What will we do when we get there?” he asks.

Illya looks out to the island, thinking of the possibilities that lie before them. “I’m not sure,” he says as a smile grows. “But we’ll certainly find out.”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are greatly appreciated!


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